


Ambitions Like Ribbons

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Broadway, F/M, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 80,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is set in an alternate universe where Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson never met in high school. Years after graduation, Blaine is an up and coming musician who’s just propelled himself to fame, while Kurt is a Broadway performer who recently landed his first leading role. A chance encounter brings the two together. <b><a href="http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/49317139959/ambitions-like-ribbons-masterpost-summary-this">Reblog on Tumblr!</a></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: Blaine

**Author's Note:**

> “This is unacceptable.”

“Wes—”

“No, Blaine, let me talk. This is… completely unacceptable.”

There was a time when all of this was easy, and if Blaine tries to put a timestamp on the exact moment that ended, he’d probably place his finger on Nationals five years ago. High school always came with its unique brand of drama, but hindsight is 20/20, and looking at his life now, there’s nothing that Blaine misses more than being part of the Warblers and having that unique ability to step right onto a stage and belt his heart out — no band, no frills. Just a captive audience and the support of a group of guys he came to see as his brothers.

“Mr. Anderson has all of two days to finish recording this album before he leaves on his tour. We waited months for an opening at this studio specifically because we were told that its recording equipment is top of the line and that the final turnaround is twice as fast as it’d be at a larger studio. Yet you’re telling me that we’re being held up because of a computer crash?”

“We are incredibly sorry for the delay, Mr. Montgomery,” the assistant apologizes, a young redhead with cheeks burning a splotchy pink as she toys with a stray thread on her sleeve cuff. Blaine can’t help but smile sympathetically; she looks fresh out of college, if that, with her pumps remarkably unscuffed in spite of being half a size too large.

Seeing Wes raise a thumb to his brow with a harried look, Blaine steps forward, hand raised placatingly. “C’mon Wes,” he nudges, offering a wide and winning smile as he claps his hands together, palm pressed to palm. “I will personally promise to knock it out of the park tomorrow. We’ve only got six songs left to go, so all we need to do is to wrap one every other hour, and then I’m still on the plane by ten to make the first concert out in Chicago. Everything will be ready by tomorrow, right, Marissa?” He looks to the assistant for support.

The young woman heaves a sigh through her smile, nodding quickly, a few strands of hair falling free from its loosened knot. “Yes, Mr. Anderson, yes. Definitely. Our lead IT is out on vacation right now, but he’s in tomorrow morning and I guarantee that we’ll be ready to go at eight.”

“You guaranteed that we’d have this studio booked through midnight tonight,” Wes mutters.

Grinning, Blaine claps a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, let’s just call it a day. I can’t even remember the last time I had an evening off, and I’m sure it was twice as long ago for you.”

The furrow in Wes’ brow lessens a touch, and his shoulders relax as he nods. “Fine,” he agrees. “But I want you in here at eight sharp, and I would prefer if my morning isn’t spent putting out fires from tonight.”

Already, Blaine’s stuffing his arms in the sleeves of his olive-toned pleather jacket. “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist,” he promises.

* * *

He lied. But Blaine’s pretty sure that no one can fault him for that. New York is perfect around this time of year, the leaves of the trees in Bryant Park tinged with red and gold and the chill of the evening cutting through his fringed flannel scarf as he weaves through the crowd unnoticed. Al Hirschfeld Theater is only a couple of blocks away, and when he manages to pass by the Times without being recognized, Blaine decides just to go for it, taking the risk and turning a sharp right onto 8th Ave.

The line is impressive.

Simply walking the length of the sidewalk — which, interestingly, earns him any number of glares as people wonder why he doesn’t take the other side of the road — helps Blaine collect the most pertinent facts. First of all, the production is a revival of 42nd Street, which may have been before Blaine’s time, but that certainly never stopped him from listening to the original Broadway soundtrack repeatedly for Lee Roy Reams’ smooth tenor. Secondly, the person of interest in said production happens to be playing the very same part, some guy named Kurt Hummel who Blaine thinks he might have heard of before, although he can’t quite remember where.

“Are you kidding me? You can’t spare the — Finn, this is Kurt we’re talking about here, and he’s playing a leading role of the sort that no one thought he could play in high school. You remember the whole West Side Story fiasco, don’t you?”

Blaine’s gaze turns to the side, where a petite brunette seems to be arguing with someone on her cell phone, sighing loudly enough to be heard even several feet away. She has one of those memorable faces, doe-like dark brown eyes and full lips, and suffice to say that if someone put them side by side, Blaine gets the feeling that their noses alone might have others mistaking them for relatives. Awkwardly, she looks up in time to catch him staring, and with a quick and embarrassed raise of his brows, Blaine looks forward and starts to move on.

Her voice cuts crisp through the air even with his second’s head start. “Okay, you know what, fortunately I think I’ve found a replacement, so you go ahead and stay at the garage, but you are still going to owe Kurt big, and don’t think I’m going to let you forget that,” she quickly speaks into her phone, before Blaine hears a snap of plastic. He’d move faster if it wouldn’t look so conspicuous.

“Wait!” she calls out, and he winces from behind his sunglasses; already, he can hear Wes’ scolding in the background. Fortunately, her voice lowers slightly by the time she catches up. “Aren’t you one of the Warblers? Show Choir National Championship, 2013?”

Blaine freezes and slowly turns around. “How did you—”

“It’s the eyebrows,” the brunette replies confidently, grinning broadly as she folds her hands in front of her bright yellow peacoat. “Otherwise, the lack of hair gel would have thrown me.And… the rest of New York City, apparently.”

He laughs, threading his hand through his considerable curls with a bashful smile. “Been meaning to get a trim,” he admits. “But it does come in handy if I ever want to prowl the Big Apple incognito.”

Raising her chin, the brunette shakes her head playfully. “Well, you can consider my lips sealed, Mr. Warbler. I have no intention of revealing your identity when we’ve practically a waiting mob behind us. Granted, probably a slightly different demographic than what your agent has you aiming for.”

Wes comes right back to mind, as do plenty of photoshoots with Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan.

“Probably not,” he agrees, running a hand over his lips briefly before his fingers freeze in thought and his eyes narrow. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I? You’re not just a fan who’s done extensive research, we’ve actually met before.”

“Rachel Berry,” she chirps, smile like a thousand watts again. “Formerly of the McKinley High New Directions.”

“New Directions — wait — you were that team who performed original songs at Nationals in New York, right? I remember there was so much buzz about the—” Blaine falls silent, not sure that there’s really a polite way to refer to the lengthy and, in his opinion, rather unnecessary kiss inserted between the two songs.

She looks slightly abashed. “We were young,” she says.

Blaine’s quick to nod. “Yeah, no, I totally understand.” When she doesn’t reply right away, he glances around at the bustling crowd, a few pair of eyes aimed their way. “So did I make you lose your spot in line? I thought I remembered reading some update on the SCC forum about a role that you’d landed on Broadway — is it this production?”

Smiling through his confusion, Rachel beams and shakes her head. “Oh no, no, if I was performing in 42nd Street they’d have my hide for mingling outside so soon before the show. I’ve actually been rehearsing for my first leading role, but today’s all about Kurt. He’s my brother-in-law—” Blaine’s eyes flicker to her hand, but strangely, he sees no ring. “—so I had front row seats reserved long ago. And hey, my date just backed out on me, so if you’ve got a couple of hours free, you should totally join! I promise that the cast will blow you away.”

Raising in brows in disbelief at luck and coincidence alike, Blaine exhales between his lips and shrugs with a grin. “Sure, why not?”


	2. Act II: Blaine

“That was  _amazing_ .”

Rachel beams.

“ _Amazing_ ,” Blaine repeats, pressing his hands over his mouth as the rest of the audience clears out of the theater, some of the younger members jostling and weaving through in a rush. “I can’t believe that was his opening night. And his first time playing a lead. I am…  _blown_  away, Rachel. I never knew exactly what my dream was going through high school. I liked performing, I liked singing, but watching Kurt on that stage just now, it was like his dream became my own. Incredible.”

Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, Rachel nods quickly, folding her hands neatly on her lap. “I could tell you about any number of times he’s had that effect on me, and that’s in spite of Broadway having been my dream since the moment I understood that those moving figures on television weren’t actually fairies dancing in a box.”

“I just don’t know why I don’t  _remember_  him,” says Blaine, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t forget a voice like that, or the  _stage_  presence.”

“To be fair,” interjects Rachel, raising both hands in surrender. “He was one of our more underused members. And not all of us were always the most supportive when it came to helping him with his versatility. I think it was after he started attending NYADA—”

“He went to  _NYADA?_  Wow.”

“—that he finally began to embrace his own person, and now everyone loves him for it.”

Blinking, Blaine lets out a sigh as he stretches his arms out behind him, weaving his hands into his hair and gazing at the empty stage.  _It isn’t hard to imagine why everyone adores him_ , he thinks to himself, and a part of him is already cursing the fact that he’s far too late to make it to that stage door in time to greet the star.

“Blaine?”

And that  _range_ . The highs, the lows, all reached impeccably, with a bright tone that stands out even among the female parts. Compared to the same four chords that seem to accompany all of his music, Blaine wonders if he shouldn’t be heading straight back to vocal training.

“ _Blaine_ .”

Snapping back to attention, Blaine glances blankly over at Rachel, who’s already vacated her seat and stands at the end of the row, waving for him to join. “Sorry,” he stammers, getting up from his seat and hooking his coat over his arm. “Been a long day.”

“Oh! Of course,” she nods in understanding. “I just wanted to offer you the chance to head backstage with me before Kurt goes out to the stage door. He usually makes me wait fifteen minutes before I head back while he does this traditional skin sloughing regimen, because stage make-up isn’t great for sensitive skin, but he should be ready by now. If you want to meet him.” She shrugs, as though it’s nothing more than a light suggestion, but Blaine swears that there’s something in her smile that’s knowing. It’s possible that she just wants to show off her good friend to the latest top hit wonder.

“Seriously?” replies Blaine, nose wrinkling in a smile. “I would absolutely  _love_  to.”

“Great!” Rachel laughs, tilting her head in the direction of stage right. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The first thing that Blaine notices are Kurt’s eyes. They seem to take on a different color depending on the lighting of the area, sometimes a stormy gray, other times an electric blue or pale green. He catches himself as Rachel rushes forward to wrap her arms around Kurt in a tight hug, kisses pressed to either of his cheeks, Kurt smiling as he raises a palm to rub away at the lipstick left behind.  
  
 _Oh. That smile._  
  
“I didn’t know that I would be getting a special visitor today,” Kurt remarks, gently pulling away from Rachel’s embrace to step closer to Blaine, whose throat suddenly feels a little dry.  
  
“My name is Blaine,” he says, extending a hand and feeling like he’s been suddenly thrown back to high school.  
  
“Oh, I know,” laughs Kurt with a nod as he takes Blaine’s hand in a gentle shake. “These days, it’s pretty hard to step into an Anthropologie without the acoustic version of ‘Jealousy’ playing on the speakers.”  
  
Blaine winces. “Sorry.”  
  
“Oh no, no, don’t get me wrong — it’s a lovely song, and honestly, it was about time for Taylor Swift’s whole ‘I’m nearly in my thirties and still slogging my way through high school romance’ act to take a backseat.”  
  
There’s a sudden ringing noise that interrupts Blaine as he jumps, Rachel offering quick, mumbled apologies as she ducks out of the dressing room; whoever Finn is, it seems like he gives her trouble on a regular basis.  
  
“So, now that my one source of truth has ducked out of the room,” Kurt presses on, and Blaine’s gaze snaps right back to meet his. “What brings you here tonight? I didn’t think show tunes were necessarily your style. You’re usually so Top 40.”  
  
Laughing, Blaine shakes his head, curls falling briefly in his line of sight before he pushes them away, pleased to see an amused grin on Kurt’s face. Even if impressing the guy seems like a tall order, jokes have a way of putting Blaine at ease. If nothing else, it proves that the two of them share enough to get along in the moment and have a nice conversation, which is, in Blaine’s opinion, always key to a friendship. If there’s nothing to talk about, then they’re doomed.  
  
“Uh, honestly, I didn’t really have the intention of doing anything but heading back to my place to catch some sleep. I’ve got recordings tomorrow,” clarifies Blaine, and Kurt nods, “but I happened to pass by Bryant Park and noticed a couple blocks later that there were people lined outside of the theater. And then your friend, Rachel, she apparently recognized me from show choir competitions years ago, had a free ticket because some friend of hers bailed, and now I’m here.”  
  
“Ahhh, yes. The Rachel Berry enthusiasm strikes again,” Kurt nods knowingly, smile widening. “I’m surprised that you didn’t turn tail and run; she seems to fit the exact description of people whom I imagine you’d be better off avoiding.”  
  
“Honestly, I don’t get accosted in the streets half as much as I’m sure my agent would eventually like for me to be,” admits Blaine, slipping his hands into his pockets with a shrug. “Don’t let the interviews and photoshoots fool you; you’d be  _amazed_  by how different you can look after a team of stylists have gone ahead and pinned your suit in any number of ways.”  
  
“Mmm,” hums Kurt with a nod, walking over to his vanity, Blaine’s brows raising as he notices a steeping glass teapot filled with finely chopped lemon leaves and a few pale licorice roots. “Care for some tea?” He starts pouring before Blaine has the chance to protest.  
  
“Sure,” he says with a helpless grin, sinking into one of the pair of plush armchairs situated in the corner of the room. His eyes narrow with a sudden thought. “Don’t you have a stage door to get to?”  
  
“Yes.” Walking over with a pair of matching glass teacups, Kurt places one gently in front of Blaine before sinking into the other armchair, easily crossing his legs. “But seeing as how Rachel’s left to deal with my occasional Neanderthal of a stepbrother, and given the fact that I’m sure the mob  _would_  accost you were I to take you out there with me, and the fact that I simply can’t leave a relative stranger in my dressing room unattended, I’m going to bite the harms of letting people wait outside in the autumn chill for a few minutes longer. Besides, they say anticipation is the best spice.”  


	3. Act III: Kurt

They talk for hours. A few minutes quickly drags into thirty, and thirty soon stretches into the wee hours of the morning, the pair of them only ushered out when the security guards have to lock up for the night around two. Any chance of ducking out to greet the fans has ended long ago, and Kurt tries fruitlessly to summon any amount of remorse over the fact, but it’s practically like pulling teeth. Kurt can’t even keep track of what they talk about instead, the topics changing like quicksilver; one minute, they’re both discussing the way that Marion Cotillard never seems to age no matter how many years pass (they’re both mildly suspicious of it, but admit that Italian Vogue knows what they’re doing when it comes to timelessness), and the next, Blaine goes on about some controversial football regulation that Kurt couldn’t care less about, except for the way that it makes this guy light up as he pulls his shoes onto the fine upholstery of the chairs, sitting Indian-style. Normally, Kurt would be flying off the rails, trying to preserve the intricate silk design, but tonight, the habit is as adorable as it is infuriating.

He gets the sense that this is probably a common theme with the pop star.

At the end of the night, with their breath fogging in the chill of the air as they wait on the street for taxis passing by, Kurt’s shaken out of his reverie by a heavy clap of a hand on his shoulder.

“So hey, I think that’s my ride,” Blaine grins, nodding towards the taxi that’s stopped in front of them.  _When did that get here,_  Kurt wonders, but he quickly offers a nod, covering up for his momentary lapse in attention.

“So it would seem,” he replies, glad that winter’s always helped keep the flush of his cheeks at bay, nothing more than the chill stinging his complexion into what he’s sure is a dusting of rose on his face. “I suppose I ought to thank you for keeping me company in Rachel’s stead. And for watching my show.”

“No, man, the pleasure’s all mine.” There’s a pause before Blaine gives his shoulder a slight shake, his thumb brushing over the spot, and Kurt stares impassively down, even as his heart ricochets against his chest, unsure how to interpret it all.

“Say, we should get coffee sometime,” Blaine adds as he pats Kurt’s shoulder one more time —  _that must be the fifth time now_ , Kurt thinks,  _and what does it say that I’m keeping track?_  — and steps towards the side of the sidewalk, where the cabbie impatiently taps at the top of his steering wheel. “Are you free anytime tomorrow? I can probably squeeze out a couple of hours around lunch, actually.”

Brow furrowing in a moment of skepticism, so much easier to wear than hope, Kurt purses his lips. “We have both afternoon and evening performances; I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending the whole of the day looking like a chicken with its head cut off. I need to clean my act up a bit, anyhow. There were some steps that I missed.”

For a second, Blaine’s expression is unreadable, frozen before he blinks back to attention. “Ah, yeah, of course,” he nods with a shrug. “I should’ve figured, sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“For what it’s worth, I thought you totally killed it. If I didn’t make that clear already. Or, you know, if the standing ovation didn’t speak for itself.”

Kurt’s lips part in a moment of surprise, but soon smoothens into a gracious smile. “Thank you.”

“But, um.” Blaine’s fingers press against his eyebrows. “Anyway, if you do find yourself with spare time, even after the performance or something.” He reaches into his pocket, and Kurt’s brow raises as he watches the singer pull out a business card and a pen — bright pink — to scrawl a number on the blank side before holding it out to Kurt. “Here’s my number. I’d love to hear more about Broadway and what you’ve been doing since graduation. I’m usually kind of spotty about calls, but texts are my jam.”

“Wow,” remarks Kurt as he takes the card in hand. “You must trust easily to hand this out without fear of repercussion. Not afraid I’m going to turn this into TMZ?”

Laughing, Blaine shakes his head — (“Sir,” the cabbie insists, arm stretched behind the passenger seat headrest.) — before ducking into the cab. “Let’s just say that I trust myself to be a fairly good judge of character,” he says with a roguish grin. “See you around, Kurt.”

Offering a brief, tense wave, Kurt stands on his own by the sidewalk for several seconds later, before he starts to make his own attempt to flag down a taxi.

He is going to  _kill_  Rachel Berry.

* * *

He finds her before long, knows that she’s in his apartment as soon as he’s standing right outside, key poised to unlock and enter;  _Funny Girl_  filters through into the hall, and Kurt can only thank his lucky stars that he’s managed to land himself a flat filled with tenants who keep any manner of hours and don’t mind noise pollution. It backfires on days when Kurt wants nothing more than to close up shop and sink into deep beauty rest, but these days, those opportunities have been far fewer than visits from his on again, off again sister-in-law.   
  
Door closing behind him and lock sliding with a resolute click, Kurt’s lips press thinly as he strides into the apartment, jaw locked in frustration. She’s sitting on the loveseat, dressed in one of his smaller pajama sets and a pillow caught between her chest and thighs as her arms wrap around her knees. It’s clear that she’s been crying, but in knowing that this is more the norm than it is the exception, Kurt doesn’t hesitate to plop himself by her side, leveling a severe look. To her credit, Rachel flinches, pressing her lips to the corner of the pillow.   
  
“Are you angry with me for skipping out early?” she asks, voice partially muffled by the pillow.   
  
Heaving a deep exhale, Kurt shakes his head, less in response to her question and more out of sheer disbelief. “You couldn’t  _warn_  me before bringing Blaine Anderson to the show? Seriously?”   
  
Lips parting in protest, Rachel holds her arms out to either side. “I had no idea that he was going to show up at Al Hirschfeld! Honestly, Kurt, do you really think that I have either the connections or the pull to get a platinum record star to swing by for a couple of hours? It’s not like I  _planned_  this. Especially considering that until Finn backed out of coming using his excuse of the week, I didn’t even have a ticket to offer Blaine.”   
  
“No, but you could’ve sent me a text beforehand—”   
  
“—I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt my conversation with him—”   
  
“—or  _during_  the show—”   
  
“—okay, you  _know_  my thoughts on the sanctity of the theater and the need to turn off all electronic devices, that was  _never_  an option.”   
  
With a huff, Kurt toes off his shoes and pulls his legs onto the couch, burying his face in his knees.   
  
Emboldened, Rachel leans in, resting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, and he can’t tell whether or not the sympathy’s appreciated or whether he’d rather push it to the side entirely, but it’s too difficult to make a choice, so he sits still and keeps silent. “Look, that crush you had on him was  _years_  ago, Kurt. It was high school; I had no idea that you would still be so affected by him coming to see a play of yours. It’s not exactly like you haven’t already made a name for yourself as an actor, Kurt, there’s no reason to be shy about it.” Her nose wrinkles. “Besides, it’s not like the two of you ever really met. How much of a crush can you have after seeing him in all of half a dozen performances?”  
  
Kurt glances up with a glower, and Rachel pulls away. “ _Okay_ , okay, sorry. I wasn’t trying to judge.”   
  
“No,” he shakes his head, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm. “No, you’re right. It’s stupid to get so worked up over a few performances. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but something threw me off and it was like… it was like I was in high school again, acting ridiculously in front of a guy who’d never be interested in me. Although, I have to tell you, Blaine’s tastes are far more aligned with mine than Finn’s ever were.”   
  
“I’m sure that you left a  _fine_  impression, Kurt,” Rachel reassures, the thin line of her lips enough that Kurt suspects it’s taking quite an amount of willpower on her end not to dive deeper into the matter of Finn. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I find his lack of any significant other in this climb to fame rather suspicious. You never know.”   
  
Kurt scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He’s too confident of a guy and entirely too supportive of LGBT rights to be hiding in the closet.”   
  
“People have said the same about you, Kurt.”   
  
The remark quiets him down at last, mind already traitorously running over every interaction, looking for signs that he doesn’t expect himself to be able to find.   
  
“He  _did_  give me his number,” he admits, fishing the card out from his pocket as Rachel’s eyes widen. “And he asked me to coffee. Or lunch; it wasn’t really clear which.”   
  
“And  _what did you say?_ ”   
  
“I said I was too busy.” Kurt shrugs heavily before adding, in a pointed tone, “Which is true.”   
  
Pausing to level him with an unimpressed look, Kurt blanches as Rachel reaches for his phone and unlocks it with all of the ease befitting a best friend of many years.   
  
“I’m staging an intervention,” she announces.


	4. Act IV: Blaine

If there’s one thing that Blaine Anderson would like the rest of the world to know, it’s that he’s not very good at romance. Almost everyone in the entertainment industry seems convinced that Blaine is hiding a lover behind closed doors, someone capable of keeping their head underwater — Wes thinks that it makes for good intrigue, and so all interviews are led with Blaine’s reminder that he’s just kind of a private guy and wouldn’t want to overwhelm that special someone by exposing them to the world — but the truth is, there just hasn’t been time. Between concerts and recording sessions, interviews and publicity gatherings, Blaine hasn’t had the opportunity to hone his technique since sophomore year of high school, when he somehow decided that it’d be a brilliant idea to serenade his crush among the racks at the local Gap.

Sometimes, he can’t help but think that what he does now is shockingly similar. (Maybe the stage has upgraded a level or two.)

Most of the time, Blaine’s general incompetence in affairs of the heart doesn’t bother him. He’s only twenty-three, he has his whole  _life_  in front of him, and no matter what shortcomings he’s faced up until now, he’s always had twice as many blessings come his way shortly after.

Yet for some inexplicable reason, he hasn’t slept a wink tonight.

“Giving out my number was stupid,” he mutters, voice muffled from where his face is buried in his pillow. “And lunch the next day — so transparent —  _ugh_ .”

It probably has something to do with Kurt Hummel. Blaine honestly can’t remember the last time he’s had that much time alone with a person other than Wes. Or maybe his parents, if the holidays count. And there’s just something about meeting someone, Blaine thinks, that’s inherently romantic. Like they’re all trying to find ways in which they can fit in each other’s lives, wondering if that other person is the missing puzzle piece, the one they’ve been looking for all this time.

And Blaine blew it. Talking about the Buckeyes versus UMich must seem so pedestrian to someone like Kurt, and resorting to Italian Vogue for fashion is probably the most clichéd card he’s played yet. Burying his face deeper into the soft down, he shakes his head into his pillow, willing sleep to come, show a poor guy some mercy.

That’s when his phone buzzes.

Nose wrinkling, Blaine considers ignoring the alert (if it was an emergency, Wes would call no matter what the hour), but gives in at last with a groan. Squinting against the sudden light shining into his eyes, he blinks, finding a message from an unknown sender.

**Unknown (3:17)**   
How about Becco around 11:30?

**Blaine (3:19)**   
Sorry, think you have the wrong number

**Unknown (3:20)**   
Not my dapper fellow fan of Marion Cotillard, then?

Both brows raising in disbelief, Blaine allows himself to go through the meticulous process of adding Kurt Hummel’s number to his contact list, and he swears that there’s something wrong with his fingers, because they keep shaking all the while. Possibly his face as well; his cheeks are already  _aching_ .

**Blaine (3:23)**   
You think in dapper?   
*I’m

**Kurt (3:25)**   
Oh, please. You’ve managed to pull bowties into platinum records without irony. What is that, if not dapper?

He laughs incredulously, rolling over onto his back and sheets tangled in any amount of disarray as he stares up at his phone. They’re flirting, right? This isn’t just his imagination. (God only knows he’d be disappointed in himself for having such a tame dream.) But work beckons, and Blaine takes a second to rest his tired eyes against his palm, contemplating whether or not this will be worth the endless tirades and scolding from Wes’ end. Recording a track every other hour is ambitious enough as it is, and Wes’ quality checks are as strict as they come.

…who’s he kidding? This is  _totally_  worth it.

**Blaine (3:28)**  
I’ll be there 

* * *

With a pair of bright yellow wayfarer shades obscuring his eyes from view, Blaine feels significantly underdressed by the time that he arrives at the front door of Becco. There’s a line which curves its way onto the sidewalk, impatient customers glaring in his direction as he slips his way through — (“Excuse me. Sorry! I’m… meeting someone, I swear I’m not trying to cut, sorry.”) — to the maître d’, nervously combing back his hair as he waits for the blonde to glance up his way. To his credit, and in honor of the new dapper title he holds, Blaine wears a deep purple bowtie that he quickly tries to adjust as soon as his hair’s made it clear that it has no intention of lying flat. The drawback, of course, is that the bowtie has the effect of making him feel as though he has even more of a knot in his throat than there was already at the beginning of the day. To call Wes displeased with the quality of Blaine’s recordings would be making a grave understatement.   
  
As would trying to convince himself that Wes won’t be infuriated once Blaine returns from his two-hour long ‘bathroom break.’   
  
“May I help you?” the blonde finally chirps, glancing up with a look that makes Blaine wonder if they’re trying to earn a reputation through a haughty ambiance rather than the food itself.   
  
“Ah, yeah, I’m here for — Hummel, party of two?”   
  
“Right this way.”   
  
Stuffing his hands awkwardly in his pockets and turning on his heel to offer the line of customers another apologetic bow, Blaine hurries to keep up with the maître d’ as she passes through tables, seemingly heading directly to the back of the restaurant. With most people firmly seated and chattering away, it isn’t too hard to follow her progress, and Blaine’s eyes rove in the meantime. The entire establishment is beautifully lit, warm lamps held against rustic golden walls on one side and pale brown brick on the other, and though everything carries with it a clear Italian theme, there are also the unmistakably sharp lines that speak of high-end New York.   
  
It’s the  _exact_  kind of place Blaine can see Kurt dining on a regular basis.   
  


He’s led up to the Atrium, a quieter room with a pyramidal skylight that allows sun to filter in through the ceiling, before Blaine finally spots Kurt sitting at a corner table, scrolling idly through his phone.  
  
“Hey, sorry I’m late, I tried to get here as fast as I could, but apparently neglected to account for midday traffic,” Blaine apologizes, clasping his hands together as he slides into his seat, glancing down the menu.  
  
Kurt finishes sending another text before he looks up with a smile and puts the device away. “It’s fine. At this point, a few more minutes of solitude can only help rather than hurt.”  
  
“Nervous?”  
  
“Always.” Hands newly unoccupied, Kurt smooths out his vest, hands running down either side to tug at the fabric, and Blaine has to instruct himself to keep that gaze above shoulder-level to prevent his mind from wandering. Kurt tilts his head before continuing. “I’ve always felt that the minute an artist stops being nervous is the minute that the progress in his or her career comes to a screeching halt. Being nervous means that you’re trying for more, or to better yourself. If you’re completely ready to give the audience the same performance, it means you’ve hit a plateau.”  
  
Blaine cringes. “Ouch. Guess that doesn’t bode well for my career.”  
  
“I  _did_  say artist instead of idol for a reason,” Kurt points out, raising his brow with a smug grin and pointing out the broccoli and garlic fusilli to the waiter by their table.  
  
“You  _wound_  me, sir,” protests Blaine, tapping on the spaghetti pomodoro and offering their waiter a wide smile in thanks. “I’ll have you know that I write my own lyrics and arrangements. Some people get off easy being the face in the packaged product, but that mindless route isn’t the one I’m bound for.”  
  
“Then are you telling me that you’re seriously never nervous the first time you reveal a new song? You never worry about people thinking it tacky, or overdone, or unoriginal? Not to mention that you’re pretty much stuck with a four chord arrangement from the moment you step into the world of pop, making it even harder to stand out from the rest.”  
  
Reaching out for a hot roll in the bread basket, Blaine shakes his head with a laugh. “You are  _such_  a theater snob. But no, actually, you’re right. I’m not often worried about the performances themselves, but unveiling a new song’s always a bit nerve-wracking.”  
  
“You could always switch it up.” Kurt raises both brows. “Get prepackaged lyrics, get to worry about the delivery instead. Dance on the stage like we all did in high school. If Nick Jonas can make the leap back from pop to Broadway, so can you.”  
  
Blaine isn’t sure what it says about him that he actually considers the idea.  


	5. Act V: Kurt

About thirty minutes into lunch, Blaine’s phone starts vibrating on the table. There’s no look of surprise on his face when he tilts the screen to see the name on display; if anything, he lets out a snort that reads as frustrated, if Kurt chooses to be optimistic. (But he’s so rarely optimistic about these things, and so it all ends up looking like faint and fond exasperation to him.) Blaine has both the sense and manners enough to glance up with a questioning look at Kurt, who nods with a light roll of his eyes, the kind that reads ‘ _you’re a pop star, how do I have the right to be shocked in the slightest?'_  And yet, surprised Kurt certainly is. It seems silly to have been caught off-guard in such a way now, because realistically, what  _is_  this really? Nothing more than a lunch, and sometimes Kurt thinks that it’s really about time that he learns to recognize that his own appeal to others is in being a Broadway star, a type of success that still comes none too easily to people, even with YouTube helping to make breaking the surface of the water a touch simpler — it’s just as likely that anything else that Blaine’s here because he’s curious about diving into theater, or that he’s just plain nostalgic for show choir.

Further interest than that doesn’t necessarily play into this at all.

He twirls pasta around his fork, hoping he doesn’t look half as forlorn as he feels — this is all Rachel’s fault, he thinks to himself, all her fault for sending those texts, for listing the million ways in which Blaine’s replies could be read as encouraging, and he’d certainly be more vocal in chiding her were it not for the fact that he finds it remarkable how she still maintains such hope for romance after all the back and forth she’s had with Finn. They’re on the rocks for the time being, Finn taking far too many trips back to Ohio for how homesick he feels, overwhelmed by all of the sparkle and ambition of New York, neither of which his personality naturally lends to. They’re still trying, though. As far as Kurt’s concerned, that’s enough reason to root for the both of them. Besides, he hasn’t exactly had much luck of his own in the romance department. Life seems keen on getting in the way, and given the choice between a nice boy and a starring role on Broadway, Kurt has yet to hesitate before making the smarter decision.

He can do it again and throw love to the crows, he tells himself, stabbing at a piece of broccoli as Blaine’s phone rings for the sixth time in as many minutes, but it seems like Blaine’s had enough for the moment, holding down the button until the screen goes black.

“Quite the popular guy,” Kurt remarks airily.

“Huh?” asks Blaine, looking up so guilelessly that Kurt really is impressed with his ability to lack any semblance of self-awareness at all. ‘ _Me, popular? No way,_ ’ his face seems to read, and Kurt would roll his eyes if it weren’t so adorable.

“Your phone,” he points out with a nod of his head.

“ _Oh_ . Oh, no, that was just my manager,” Blaine stammers, face flushing a deep pink.

“Is  _that_  what we’re calling them these days?”  
  
To his surprise, Blaine reaches out, almost seemingly in reflex as his fingers graze across Kurt’s knuckles. Where Kurt hangs everything on the briefest of glimpses and softest of touches, a tactile nature seems to come so easily to Blaine, to the point where it isn’t surprising at all that the world’s practically fallen at his feet in the span of mere weeks. Kurt holds his hand still, determinedly meeting Blaine’s gaze.  
  
“I don’t know which tabloids you’ve been reading,” Blaine says, smiling in spite of the embarrassment still painted on his features, and his thumb brushes along the side of Kurt’s hand, a friendly gesture that leaves the actor feeling breathless in spite of its levity. “But I can tell you this much. If I was dating someone? The  _world_  would know. Maybe not my partner’s face or their name, because it’s far too easy to track a person down and I’d never — if my fame got them in trouble, I can’t even express how awful I’d feel — but love’s the kind of thing that makes you want to jump on the rooftops and shout it out to the world, right? And I’m not great at hiding something like that.”  
  
Kurt’s heart skips a beat before Blaine’s hand pulls away to reach for his fork. And while Blaine lets go, Kurt finds his fingers stretching out for a second, as though chasing after the warmth, palm still glued to the surface of the table.  
  
“Sounds like you’ve been taking love advice from those songs you sing,” he replies, and for what he’s sure won’t be the last time, Kurt Hummel wishes that he could be a little more honest with the world, or even with himself.  
  
“Isn’t that the idea?”  

* * *

Turns out the phone calls really  _were_  coming from Blaine’s manager, as Kurt discovers in the middle of a heated Patti LuPone versus Barbra Streisand debate while they’re leaving Becco, each with a cup of coffee in hand that the restaurant had kindly offered them to go. Blaine’s usual coffee is a medium drip with a crystal, and Kurt’s only relieved that the idea of drinking drip brew is still as unappealing to him as it was before Blaine placed his order, but he does feel a little overly conscious of his nonfat mocha, pressing his lips to the cup and enjoying the way the steam unfurls under his nose.   
  
He’s trying his best not to eavesdrop — his mother taught him better than that — but Wes Montgomery’s voice is  _loud_  even from the tinny speaker of a cell phone, and Kurt hears snippets of the conversation, something about album recordings and lost time, about needing to make a concert in Chicago tomorrow and continuing on tour after that. Suddenly, Kurt’s own schedules don’t feel like half the burden compared to hopping back to back flights just to appease the preteens of the greater American population.   
  
The voice stops. Kurt glances over in time to catch a glimpse of Blaine tucking the phone into his back pocket.   
  
“Screw it,” he declares, a look of mischief in his eyes when he turns his gaze over to Kurt. “I’m going to your afternoon performance.”   
  
Kurt hides his sudden smile with another sip from his coffee, ignoring the way that it scalds his tongue. “ _If_  I can find you a ticket,” he reminds Blaine with mock disdain.   
  
“If you can find me a ticket.”   
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

They manage to find Blaine a seat. It’s not nearly as good as the last, and buying off a ticket scalper feels dirty somehow to Kurt, but whether or not Blaine notices Kurt’s discomfort, it doesn’t stop him from remarking that he would’ve paid twice the price to see this show. Something tells Kurt that he’ll be better off not being able to spot Blaine’s smile from the front row. It’s too disarming.   
  
“Just don’t miss stage door,” he warns, arching a brow as they part ways.   
  
“Just make sure it’s worth my time,” Kurt counters.   
  
“Challenge accepted,” Blaine grins, and he’s off before Kurt can even begin to protest.

* * *

**Rachel ♥ (1:43)**

BREAK A LEG!!! Xoxo   
  
**Kurt (1:43)**   
Rachel, he’s here.   
  
**Rachel ♥ (1:44)**   
Who??   
  
**Kurt (1:44)**   
Blaine.   
  
**Rachel ♥ (1:46)**   
Omg what did I tell you? Shoot I wish I was there!!   
  
**Kurt (1:47)**   
I wish you were, too. I’ve been spending too much time with theater folks. Can’t remember how to read reactions from normal people.   
  
**Rachel ♥ (1:49)**   
Remember he was in glee too!!   
And normal is overrated   
  
**Kurt (1:50)**   
What we say to console ourselves, huh?   
  
**Rachel ♥ (1:52)**   
You wanna be a loser like me ♥   
  
**Kurt (1:54)**   
Love you, Berry. X

* * *

The play goes off without a hitch.   
  
But that isn’t the best part.


	6. Act VI: Rachel

There is nothing better to help soothe an aching heart than to focus on the romances of others, Rachel finds. Back in high school, nothing seemed to matter more than landing solos in glee performances and making sure that she caught Finn Hudson’s attention as best as she could — in more ways than one, the boy who had once been so wholly unobtainable became her safety net, the one thing that she was sure would never leave her — but as the years pass, she’s come to realize that romance isn’t something that necessarily benefits from the way she tends to obsess, running every single detail into the ground. If anything, that tendency happens to be the one that frustrates Finn most of all.

Sometimes, she’s tempted to let it. Such is married life, she supposes.

But taking five minutes to peer into the whirlwind romance of a friend? There’s nothing like it. From where she sits now, a fleece throw carefully tucked around her legs and large plush bears surrounding her on all sides, trophies won after well-resonating performances, Rachel is able to craft a completely ideal world for Kurt and Blaine. One without entanglements. One surprisingly simple. She remembers the way that the other girls in glee club used to tell her that she was only blinding herself to the vast myriad of problems that she and Finn had, and if only she was able to step into their shoes, it would all come clear. She kind of gets that now.

Unlike the other girls, though, Rachel Berry now has the perfect vantage point from which to observe the crisp, bowtied romance of Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson. It’s coming. It’s gonna happen. Biting down eagerly on her lower lip, Rachel wiggles her toes in their soft piggy slippers and unlocks her phone.  

* * *

_“Are you— oh my god Rachel, give that back!”_  
  
 _“No! If you aren’t going to act on this cute boy on your own, and even after he gave you his number, then you’re clearly hopeless. Even I can see that. Now get off — you’re crushing my toes,_ ow! _”_  
  
 _“He was probably just hoping to have me drop a good word off with the casting directors for the next big production and trying to piggyback off what so many other pop stars have done recently in taking their career to the stage. Which, if you ask me, ruins the whole integrity of Broadway, because now casting directors are going to want to pick the big names before people who have lived and dreamed and_ breathed _theater all their lives. I’m not buying into it.”_  
  
 _“Kurt, are you_ listening _to yourself? The guy invited you out for lunch.”_  
  
 _“He invited me out for coffee.”_  
  
 _“Or lunch.”_  
  
 _“Or lunch, but seriously, do you honestly think that he’s going to entertain the idea of risking the crazed antics of paparazzi and the countless rumors that’d ensue just to grab a bite to eat with a former fellow show choir performer?”_  
  
 _“No.”_  
  
 _“No.”_  
  
 _“No, I think he’s going to risk the above because he_ likes _you, Kurt.”_  
  
 _“…”_  
  
 _“And if you really think that he’s going to disappear into the ether when you don’t help him snag a starring role in the next Sondheim revival, then it doesn’t make a difference whether I’ve texted him or not anyway, right?”_  
  
 _“…I hate the rare occasions when you actually manage to break out sound logic.”_  
  
 _“I love you too, Kurt.”_  
  
 _“Ugh, but you’re seriously — okay, I can’t stay here while you text the guy who was once the love of my quaint little Midwestern life. I need a Niravam. Or four.”_  
  
 _“…and now that you’re out of the room, looks like Blaine Anderson’s number has found a new home.”_

* * *

**Rachel ♥ (2:11)**  
The time has come to make a choice Mr. Anderson!! Either you choose to sit in the audience from this day forth or you choose to follow thru on lunch and court the boy!!  
  
When a couple of minutes pass without reply, Rachel purses her lips, pulling the largest bear until his button nose is pressed cool against her cheek. “Maybe I miscalculated,” she sighs against Baron Olivier’s matted fur. “Maybe Kurt’s really outdone himself and managed to snag the attention of the  _single_  number one hit pop star who would actually respect the no electronics rule.”  
  
She jolts straight when the phone sounds an alert.  
  
 **Blaine (2:16)**  
Rachel?  
  
 **Rachel ♥ (2:17)**  
Good guess & good memory  
  
 **Blaine (2:19)**  
Lucky I’m at kurt’s performance and could make the association  
  
 **Rachel ♥ (2:21)**  
When a girl gives you the chance to call her memorable, you should take it  
  
 **Blaine (2:22)**  
Sorry! Guess you could say my priorities have been elsewhere  
Are you sure it’s okay for me to text you like this? Getting nasty looks  
  
 **Rachel ♥ (2:24)**  
Which is why you should head out right now  
I know the play’s still going  
But if you want to impress kurt a last minute street corner bouquet won’t cut it  
  
The longer it takes Blaine to reply, the wider Rachel’s smile stretches, until at last she can’t wait any longer, shoving the throw off with a flourish and heading directly for her dresser. Resting the phone on top, she takes the time to send one more message:  
  
 **Rachel ♥ (2:31)**  
Call me when you’re outside!! X

* * *

“Tiger lilies?”  
  
“Tiger lilies.”  
  
“Isn’t that a little weird?” Blaine asks, a new cup of coffee held tightly in his hand as Rachel guides the both of them down the street, peeking inside the florist shops and walking briskly, the early closing hour soon approaching. “A guy giving a bouquet to another guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with guys showing each other affection either platonically or romantically, and I am  _waiting_  for the day that we see marriage equality in all fifty states, but are you sure that Kurt will appreciate it? You  _did_  say it’s taken a while for him to land a role like this one, and there’s going to be press there; I just don’t know—”  
  
Blinking, Rachel turns to face Blaine in faint amusement. “Well, what exactly were you planning on doing instead?”  
  
“I… was thinking of singing ‘Young and Healthy,’ maybe providing the harmonies for an impromptu jam session with the other fans waiting by stage door,” Blaine replies, looking increasingly less confident in the idea upon seeing Rachel’s reaction.  
  
“Okay honestly, between that and flowers, I think flowers are actually the safer bet if you’re hoping not to draw attention from the press,” Rachel points out with an arched brow.  
  
“Maybe,” Blaine shrugs, then wincing, stopping by a bouquet of red and yellow roses and letting his fingers linger over the soft petals. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You’d think that after having tried to serenade someone in a clothing store with a good dozen of my best pals, I would’ve learned a thing or two about subtlety.”  
  
“Oh, trust me, Kurt doesn’t need subtle,” Rachel assures him, placing both hands on his shoulders — it’s so nice that he’s actually decently within reach — as she coaxes him further inside the shop. “He’s had a thing for you ever since our junior year—”  
  
“ _Seriously?_ ”  
  
“— _yes_ , seriously. It’s like you don’t even know your own appeal. Anyway.” Rolling her eyes playfully, Rachel picks up a large bouquet with a bit of a crinkle and eases them into Blaine’s hands, which tighten on instinct. “My point being that if it’s your intention to sweep him off his feet, a big, grand gesture is the sort of thing that he’d secretly love. I just think it’d be more…  _prudent_  to stay under the radar, with you being this huge star.”  
  
Blaine frowns. “I never said that I wanted—”  
  
“Yes, well, while you may have the whole of America fooled, I was raised by two gay dads who very carefully honed my gaydar to help me avoid the inevitable heartbreak that otherwise would have come with my career in theater,” she sighs, shaking her head and again pivoting them towards the cashier.  
  
Bemusedly, Blaine hands the florist a twenty, holding up his hand to let the man keep the change. “So what do you recommend that I do, exactly?”  
  
“If I made a specific recommendation right now, my complicit role in all of this would be made far too clear to Kurt and I’d never hear the end of it — no, you can’t turn to me to figure this out for you, Blaine, it has to be something that  _you’d_  do,” Rachel concludes, beaming. “I’m just here as moral support and encouragement, and maybe also as that walking veto to make sure that you don’t do anything you’d regret.”  
  
“Helpful,” snorts Blaine, but Rachel’s pretty sure that she catches the glimpse of a grin on his face.  
  
“Look, if it helps any,” Rachel offers, distractedly pulling her hair over a shoulder, “I know the exact diner that Kurt heads to after every performance.  _And_  it’s only a few blocks away from Central Park…”  
  
Laughing, Blaine hangs his head, before bobbing it a few times in a nod. “I think I can work with that.”  
  
Rachel thinks that her heart might just burst.


	7. Act VII: Kurt

There was once a time when Kurt Hummel agonized over the look of his signature. Never one with the best handwriting, Kurt resolved over the years to master the use of cursive, if nothing else, because he firmly believed that to sign in print wouldn’t have been edgy so much as  _elementary_ . As a result, many weekends were lost as he browsed through pinterest and Tumblr alike, picking out the fonts of the day and wondering which of the group had lasting potential.

These days, he knows better. Between the squeals of men and women alike that seem to reverberate in his chest as he walks the perimeter of the crowd, Kurt’s signature ends up being little more than a curved swipe of his initials as he tries to sign for as many of his fans as possible, not wanting their patience and loyalty to be for naught. Prettying up his autograph? Far less important on the whole.

“Thank you. Thank you  _so_  much for coming,” he says graciously, and right now, he’s not sure that he can ever tire of his fans’ beaming faces and cheeks flushed from the chill. Still, buoyed by a faint hope, Kurt glances around for a familiar crop of curly hair, but it looks to him that Blaine’s probably slipped away after all, not standing a chance against the most zealous of fans practically trying to climb over the barrier. (The smile that he has for them is a little more strained, because as much as he appreciates the fan base, jostling everyone in one’s direct vicinity or slapping a playbill against another fan’s face just feels like too much.)

“Hey, play nice, guys,” Kurt reminds them with a wag of his pen.

Fortunately, it isn’t long before Kurt’s driver steps forward to usher her client to the car, and where she’s generally quiet and almost a bit passive — the best type of companionship to have after a show, Kurt thinks — there’s an undeniably mischievous look to her smile now as she reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. Sometimes people point out how baffling it is to be so close to one’s hired help, but to Kurt, Beth’s never been anything short of a friend, and weaving their way through the busiest parts of New York is no small order at that.

“You’ll want to get inside,” she murmurs, taking some of Kurt’s tall pile of bouquets in hand and carefully transferring them to the backseat. “There’s something waiting for you.”

“Oooh, now you have me curious,” Kurt replies under his breath, smile still maintained in full as he waves to the fans and ducks into the car, hanging his arms briefly out of the window and stretching to wave, up until his furry hat threatens to blow right off as the vehicle picks up speed.

“They’ll survive a few less seconds of you,” Beth remarks with a laugh.

“You think I’m doing this for them? Darling, confidence is something  _far_  too rare to come by in this industry, and every little bit that buoys me up that while longer, I’m seizing with both hands,” he quips, voice teasing as he slumps down onto the backseat at last, tugging his seat belt over and clicking it in place. Glancing briefly about, he bumps the toe of his shoe against the passenger side seat. “So, you promised that there was something waiting for me?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums in sing-song, and Kurt’s heart catches in his chest as he hears the familiar crinkle of plastic, his eyes widening as a bright orange peeks out from a spill of bright blue paper.

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, he  _did_ .”

Practically bouncing in his seat, Kurt strains against the belt — which jolts him in place for his excitement, as though he’s a child in need of that type of protection, but who knows, maybe he  _is_  — to reach out for the bouquet, biting down on his lower lip as he brushes his nose against the smooth petals. Tiger lilies are especially important to him for a reason, because they’re associated with some of the best moments in his life, from his dad’s marriage to Carole to having a single blossom tucked into his lapel at prom, well enough that it survived even the most enthusiastic of cha cha slides with Mercedes. There’s a part of him tempted already to text Rachel, because there’s no  _way_  that such a coincidence would fall into his lap without some type of Berry intervention; she’s already given herself away. But for something like this? It’s worth it. It’s worth letting his best friend nose around in his life, if only because the two of them have always looked out for one another in ways like this. Subtle prods that end up being anything but.

“He’s a looker.” Kurt glances up, startled, having practically forgotten that Beth was there in the first place; by the look of her smile, that seems to be something she fully intends to rub in his face until he inevitably turns as red as a cherry. “So endlessly charming. And the absolute  _worst_  for getting the hopes and dreams of all the teens to thirty-something women up when he actually swings the other way entirely. Screw him.”

He’s not sure whether or not he can call this denial, but it feels genuine enough when he leans forward, tapping his fingers nervously against his bottom lip.

“Wait, so he’s — you’re sure that he bats for my team?”

“Kurt, he just went out of his way to leave you a really smashing bouquet. Can you even imagine how full his schedule must be, yet he takes the time to find the flowers, find your driver.”

“Everyone gets flowers after a show; that doesn’t — anyway, I’m surprised that you even stopped to talk to him; you’re usually so careful about keeping the overly zealous fans out of my way.”

“The hair wasn’t fooling me, Kurt. Someday, it’ll be the death of him when word gets out of how curly his hair  _actually_  is. But at least he might end up saving on hair gel,” she shrugs playfully, clicking on the blinkers as they continue down the street, lights colored and bright all around them as a few couples continue to mill down the sidewalks here and there in spite of the quickly setting sun. “Also, hey, have you looked inside the bouquet yet? I think he wrote something along the edge of the plastic.”

“No,” Kurt replies, distracted as he stares inside the inner lining of the bouquet, smoothing it out with his fingers. “I didn’t even think to…”

_I think it’s really cool that people are able to kind of peel back the layers to find something that was already there inside of them._  
  
It takes a couple of minutes for Kurt to process, nothing more than the sound of Beth’s thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to keep him company, but in that amount of time, Kurt thinks that he gets it. Maybe Blaine’s seen through him entirely, maybe Blaine can tell that there’s so much to Kurt’s personality that’s just a front, a mask, even around Rachel. In so many ways, countless really and impossible to quantify, Kurt’s made it in a manner that no one would expect of a Lima loser. He’s taken the spotlight and made it his, and to even hint that there’s a level of discontent buried underneath all of that seems pointlessly negative and ungrateful.

Yet there it remains, a slight hollow newly realized, the one that yearns for love and the brush of fingertips, a longing that Kurt brings to the stage practically every day.

(It’s possible that he’s giving Blaine way too much credit. It’s also possible that this is only the beginning.)

A second later, he notices a line written underneath in small, upper-case print:  _MEET ME ON THE GREEN. GRAB A BITE TO EAT FIRST — IT’S ON ME._

The French toast and sausage is practically waiting for Kurt when he steps into Old John’s, surrounded on all sides by that warm gold color of ambient light as he sinks into his usual seat. Surprisingly, when he looks into the typical mug of coffee placed at the side of the plate, the scent of chocolate reaches his nose, and he looks up at the waiter in surprise.

“Nonfat mocha latte,” the young man shrugs. “Go figure, right?”

“Go figure,” Kurt agrees with a grin, and takes his first sip.

* * *

When Kurt finally starts on his leisurely stroll out to Central Park, the sky’s painted in fuchsia, and the crowds that normally roam the streets have long since been quieted, the bulk of the restless on their way either to the stadium or some other venue from which they can watch one of the last baseball games of the season. The Tavern itself had been one highly frequented establishment over the years, but recent renovations have held away the business for months, leaves collecting on the stone and the entire space looking a bit overgrown, perhaps the first steps that Burnett pictured back in the day. Shivering, he draws his scarf closer around his neck before seating himself on one of the park benches, head tilting back to stare up at the sky and wait for the stars.   
  
In the end, he doesn’t have to wait long.   
  
There’s a rustling that sounds from the side, jolting Kurt’s heart awake until it thuds against his chest — he thanks Judy Garland that it’s relatively dark outside, helping to obscure his blush from view.   
  
“So,” he says, bouquet resting neatly on his lap and neck not yet pulling away from where it rests against the bench. “You paid for lunch. And coffee. And even purchased your own ticket to my show at twice the cost, and then went on to pay for dinner? I thought friends were typically supposed to go Dutch.”   
  
“If that’s the case, then I’m pretty sure I’m still in your debt.”   
  
Brow furrowing, Kurt glances up, expression doing all of the asking for him. Laughing, Blaine moseys on over to the bench, knee knocking lightly against knee as he urges Kurt to move over, seated closely enough that Kurt can still feel the other man’s warmth near his body.  
  
“Kurt, you went up on stage and performed in front of me.  _Twice_ . I’ve been stuck in recording studios lately, or in booths for radio shows, dressing rooms for television—” Kurt raises a brow, and Blaine chuckles again, shaking his head as though to dislodge a few stubborn thoughts. “—I mean, I’m not trying to brag, I’m just pointing out that my days in diners are practically nonexistent these days. I don’t perform in front of an audience I can see and engage with, and until tonight, I’d forgotten how much I loved that.  _You_  reminded me of how much I loved that.”   
  
Kurt feels a lump in his throat, and stubbornly tries to push it down.   
  
“You move me,” Blaine goes on to say, rubbing at the back of his neck. “And that’s worth more than a hundred seafood dinners at the most overpriced place you can name.”   
  
“I may yet hold you to that,” Kurt quips, earning another grin.   
  
“ _Please_  do,” replies Blaine in earnest, before tapping on the edge of the bench with his palm and standing to his feet, practically skipping over to the opposite side of the path, clasping both hands together and glancing up nervously. “That said, I… really wanted to do something to show my appreciation. Even the score a little, if you will.”   
  
Glancing over to either side with feigned disbelief, Kurt holds a hand over his — admittedly  _pounding_  — heart. “Well, if you insist.”   
  
“I do,” Blaine nods, before clearing his throat and turning on his heel until his back’s faced to Kurt. With one more glance over his shoulder, Blaine adds, “Tell me if you’ve heard this one.”   
  
Kurt’s not sure if he can make that promise.   
  
Both hands raised in the air to coax silence out of the part, Blaine’s eyes flicker up to meet Kurt’s gaze, his grin almost coy.   
  
“You think I’m pretty without any make-up on…”


	8. Act VIII: Blaine

About halfway through the song, Blaine decides that his plan of serenading Kurt from a respectable distance can go to hell. There’s this thing about singing, and about music, where emotions are allowed to take up a different form than they do in regular conversation, where one’s able to put into melodies and song all of the things that one can’t exactly put into words. The lilts, the tones, and these are things that Blaine knows how to wield far more than he does anything else — he’s been singing for as long as he can remember, a love encouraged by a mother who’d sweep him around on her feet and an elder brother who shared with him any number of jam sessions while leaping around on the mattress. It’s as much a part of him as his curly hair, the small birthmark on the back of his neck, the fact that his childhood plans of outgrowing his elder brother never came to fruition.

This, admittedly, is only terrifying for the way that he still can’t quite read Kurt’s moods. That Kurt is here at all is something that Blaine can’t take as anything short of positive, and Rachel’s done her fair share of wheedling as well, but occasionally Kurt seems to pull back in his eyes, and Blaine’s not sure yet how to best chase after that, or indeed if he’s supposed to at all. He’s not very accustomed to worrying about failure — even after his most embarrassing of experiences, the bounce back’s always been quick. But maybe, he thinks to himself while ever optimistic, maybe that’s just another sign that there’s something in this worth pursuing, if his heart already rests so far in Kurt’s side of the court.

“We drove to Cali and got drunk on the beach,” he grins, crossing the path with a turn. “Got a motel and built a fort out of sheets.”

His spin coming to a stop, Blaine swears that he can see something of a shine in Kurt’s eyes, brighter than all of the lights illuminating the park, a shine that’s only shared between the two of them. “I finally found you,” he tells Kurt, feeling the beat of his heart as strongly as though the Warblers were lined up right behind him, marking the rhythm. “My missing puzzle piece. I’m complete.”

_Grand gestures_ , he hears Rachel Berry remark in the back of his mind, her voice and insistence alike impossible to forget.  _I’m his best friend, I’d know._

“Let’s go all the way tonight.”

Leaning down on one knee, Blaine slips his hand underneath Kurt’s where it rests against his knee and closes his fingers around that palm. Maybe he misses the rhythm, maybe it doesn’t matter, because the bob of Kurt’s foot has stopped and suddenly Blaine stands, and then the two of them are on their feet, and Blaine loses his voice as he murmurs under his breath. “No regrets. Just love.”

And Kurt smiles, so sudden that it steals a beat from Blaine’s heart, because this is real. Unbridled. There’s the tiniest hint of wrinkles that show at the corners of Kurt’s eyes, and it’s the kind of smile that he’d probably never want to show the camera, that he might be embarrassed to have appear on the cover of a magazine or playbill, but Blaine loves it all the more for its imperfection. In that moment, it’s not a question of whether or not he’s simply chasing after a guy’s talent, or whether he’s looking for inspiration. No, he’s looking for that one person to be in his life forever.

Wrapping his arm, sudden, around Kurt’s waist, Blaine spins the both of them until they’re stepping in the direction of the overgrown shrubs, hardly pruned to the perfection the Tavern used to boast only years ago. The branches of the trees, and the sprawling leaves of the bushes, all serve now to hide the both of them from all passerby.

“We can dance until we die, you and I, will be young forever.”

Kurt’s hand fits perfectly in his own, and Blaine almost forgets the words for how he slips his thumb down the center of Kurt’s palm. And maybe he’s ticklish, because Kurt laughs, and Blaine leans in until he can feel that against the shell of his ear.

“You make me feel like I’m livin’ a teenage dream,” he presses against Kurt’s temple, guides the both of them back to the brick walls of the tavern, where ivy climbs up sleepily and calls out the green of Kurt’s eyes for those precious several minutes they have until the sun will set and blanket them at last.

Blaine loses track of the lyrics, but somehow he doesn’t fall into curses the way he does at the recording studio, only keeps on singing, and either Kurt doesn’t notice or by some unfathomable means, Blaine’s still managing the right ones as he fumbles. And if there’s one thing that holds too close for comfort in the song, it’s the fact that Blaine doesn’t know how he’ll get any sleep tonight, or how he’ll get the memory of Kurt’s cologne out of mind, or the feel of denim under his thumb as he brushes by Kurt’s hip.

“Let you put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight.”

There’s not a moment that falls into silence, but instead a sharp intake of Kurt’s breath cutting through the air as Blaine presses it gently off with a kiss. In that split second, Blaine’s heart races in terror — though the feel of Kurt’s lips is already being committed to memory, soft and full and tasting of some type of chapstick, possibly cherry, definitely tart — as Kurt seems to freeze under the touch. Without the music to buoy him, Blaine feels like he’s fumbling after all, clumsily acting on not even two full days of knowing one another.

But a warmth presses against his cheek, coaxing, and —  _oh_ . It’s Kurt’s hand. And Blaine angles his face just so, almost into the touch, until Kurt shies back for a moment —  _no_ , it’s too soon — before parting his lips enough to run a tongue, sweetly, hesitantly, against the line of Blaine’s mouth.

Suddenly, Blaine feels as though he’s run out of air.

He laughs when they pull apart at last, eyes drawn to Kurt’s lips before he forces himself to stare anywhere else, at the rosy flush of Kurt’s pale cheeks or at the eyes that look so uncharacteristically out of focus. There’s a slight smattering of freckles too, over the bridge of his nose, like ghosts of sunshine long passed and hardly noticeable were he not from so close a distance. “Sorry,” Blaine apologizes as he turns his face halfway into his own waiting palm, dragging away the tension. “I probably could’ve… given you more of a warning. I guess I was just trying for spontaneity.”

“I like spontaneous,” Kurt blurts out, and it’s so unconvincing that Blaine only laughs again, head falling forward until he realizes that if he leans forward any more, they’ll touch. (After that, it’s all resisting temptation.) “I can do spontaneous and fun.”

Grinning, Blaine’s brows furrow hopefully. “All the way to Chicago?”

Shifting, Kurt nestles himself further back into the leaves of the ivy, hands moving to clasp over his chest, the tilt of his head almost bird-like. “What’s in Chicago?”  
  
“The first leg of my fall tour, it seems. I’m out in Chicago for a few days, and definitely returning to New York within the month, but there’s going to be a fair amount of jetsetting — but,” Blaine adds, seeing Kurt’s eyes fall into that same uncertainty that he’d noticed during the performance, “but you’d be completely welcome to join me. One of the perks of having a manager who’s arguably a friend is the fact that I inevitably get away with a lot more than industry standard.”

“I… I can’t,” Kurt shakes his head, brow furrowing sharply before he rushes into the rest of his words, the movement of his hands frenetic. “I have performances practically nonstop for the next couple of weeks, and even then it only stops for Columbus Day weekend, and I — I don’t have the benefit of being managed by a friend, and while I may have a fully trained understudy, there’s no way I’d land roles as easily if I backed out without explanation, not to mention that I  _couldn’t_  do that to the fans—”

“—Kurt—”

“—and does this mean, do you even live in New York? I can’t believe that I didn’t ask earlier; I kind of assumed that you lived here and that’s why you were recording here, which is silly of me when you think about it, because it’s just as plausible that you actually live in LA or anywhere else in the country and are only here to hold concerts and do some recording work—”

Shaking his head, Blaine reaches out to press his palm gently to the side of Kurt’s neck. “ _Kurt_ .”

It stalls the other boy’s words easily enough. “Yes?”

“…you’re cute when you ramble.”

Watching Kurt’s face turn a deeper shade of red, Blaine chuckles and shakes his head, thumb brushing underneath the line of Kurt’s jaw. “I was  _joking_ ,” he points out, insistent in spite of his quieted tone, and Blaine leads them both further into the grounds to keep from drawing curious looks. “I obviously don’t expect for you to throw in the towel and fly with me to Chicago. Not that I’d  _stop_  you, if you could. And I do, actually, have an apartment in New York. I may not spend the majority of my time here, but it’s… home.”

The tips of his ears red by now, Kurt’s gaze meanders and drops slowly to the ground, and Blaine can’t help himself when he leans in a second time, coaxing a kiss from the boy’s lips, more frantic and heated than the first. There’s a shift of fabric and a greater weight that settles around his shoulders; only a few seconds later does Blaine realize that they’re Kurt’s arms, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Blaine thinks that those arms might be tightening just a touch when Blaine starts to lean away.

The sound of Blaine’s phone interrupts the two of them, the ring tone that Blaine has set for Wes, and Blaine briefly entertains the idea of chucking it right through the dusty window panes of the atrium.

“You said you get Columbus Day off, right?” Blaine murmurs, short of breath, as he tilts his head enough to brush his nose against Kurt’s.

“Right. That whole weekend.”

“May I preemptively reserve that time?”

Kurt pulls back, just enough that his shoulders press against the brick wall again, and one of Blaine’s hands follows until his palm is similarly leaning into the wall, its texture rough to the touch.

“That you may.”


	9. Act IX: Burt

When Burt Hummel’s phone rattles suddenly against the nightstand, he reaches out with a heavy hand to try and smack it into submission. Land lines were so much easier for this sort of thing — one could pick the receiver up and return it to its cradle with a satisfying slam — but this new phone that his son’s purchased for him for Christmas is full of all of these buttons and locks and doo-dads that he still can’t make complete sense of. Admittedly though, he’s glad the whole Butt Dialing Fiasco of 2012 ended with the upgrade, because Burt’s not sure how many times he can take the tinny sound of Kurt yelling for him coming from his back pocket.

Carole shifts at his side with a sleepy murmur, and Burt makes sure to press a reassuring kiss to her temple before he breaks for the phone while she turns around in the other direction, in sync in the way they’ve been practically since day one. Stumbling into the hall and heart pounding in belated panic upon seeing the name on his cell, Burt quickly fiddles with the touch screen, then lifts the phone to his ear.

“Kurt,” he mutters, squinting and covering his eyes as he steps into the kitchen, flicking the main light on. “It’s three in the morning, what are you doing out of bed?”

“Dad, it’s New York. Practically everyone’s still up at three in the morning.”

Burt supposes that it’s a good sign that he can’t detect heavy panic in his son’s voice. When really upset, Kurt has this way of sounding like he’s on the verge of bursting into tears — he gets that from his mom — but at the moment, the panic sounds more like ‘missed the 50% off sale at Macy’s.’

Grinning at last, because if nothing else, he’s getting a call from his (all too busy)  _son_ , Burt slumps into the nearest seat, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, well, I remember when you used to get on my case for sleeping after midnight because the lack thereof was puttin’ a strain on my heart — and didn’t you used to turn in at ten? Y’know, Kurt, sometimes sticking to an old habit isn’t a bad thing—”

“—dad—”

His smile only widens at his son’s exasperation. “No, I’m serious, Kurt. You had a good regime goin’ here, and maybe I prefer to think that you’re all tucked away in the wee hours of the morning instead of wandering wherever you New Yorkers do at night, in those dark alleys and creepy subway tunnels.”

Over the phone, Burt hears Kurt laugh, though when he speaks again, it’s with a lower voice, like he’s trying to assume some level of authority. It’s freakin’  _adorable_ . “Dad, I know that the New York subways are a lot more daunting than downtown Columbus, but believe me, rumors of what takes place down there are grossly exaggerated. Not to mention that I’m mostly sticking to taxis and my personal driver these days.”

“Don’t you remember when I used to be that so-called ‘personal driver’?”

“That was  _ten years_  ago, dad.”

Perking up, Burt shakes his head, before remembering that the movement doesn’t exactly translate over the phone. “Plus that brief time after you got your windshield totally trashed.”

Kurt snorts. “Yes, well, remind me next time to make it painfully clear to my girl friends that I have no desire to do anything more than shop with and makeover the opposite sex.”

Rubbing at his lower lip, Burt shakes his head and pushes out of his seat to get a beer from the fridge, even though it’s three in the friggin’ morning and he’s going to regret it once Carole wakes and notices the empty bottle in the recycle bin. “So what’re you really callin’ your old man for, huh, Kurt? Much as I like to think that you just had a hankering to call your old man at this hour, my guess is that there’s something else going on, so just out with it, kid.”  
  
There’s a pause on the other side of the line. “I-had-my-first-real-kiss,” Kurt says in a single breath, and Burt can practically hear the smile on his son’s face, leaping to his feet and wishing that he had Kurt nearby to drag into a hug.   
  
“Your  _first_  real kiss,” he laughs in approval, clapping a hand to the back of his neck. Knowing how busy Kurt’s been since moving out to New York, and certainly having heard no end of complaints about the rather thin dating pool, it has Burt nothing short of ecstatic to think that his son might’ve found someone. Someone who, later today, Burt’s sure that he’ll want to look up and cross-examine in any way possible, but for now, this is enough. “Is that right? It was about  _time_ . But—”   
  
His brows furrows, hand grasping around the phone more tightly.   
  
“Wait, first real kiss? I thought you went out with that Ted guy for like a year,” Burt frowns, wracking his memory at the thought of a kind-hearted, soft-spoken kid who’d been over a few times for the Friday dinners. Nice kid. Kinda had a sassy grin to him.   
  
“His name was  _Trent_ , dad, and — no, Trent and I ended it four months into the relationship, once I realized that junior prom was approaching and I actually wanted to hang out with the glee club instead of him. We shared many interests, but there was never quite that spark.”   
  
There are days when it feels like with every conversation they share, Burt’s still amazed by his kid. The last thing that was ever on his own mind at that age was finding a spark. Honestly, he hadn’t been able to think very far past making out with a girl and, if he was lucky, potentially even going all the way. It took meeting that right person for Burt to finally realize that there was something more to reach after. Kurt seems to know that right off the bat, no guidance needed whatsoever.   
  
Sometimes, though, he prefers to think that it was Elizabeth and him who managed to set a good example for the kid where love is concerned.   
  
“But now you’ve got that spark,” he prods.   
  
“Now I’ve got that spark.”   
  
“Huh,” Burt huffs to himself, pushing out of his chair again and staring over in the direction of the office, wondering if he shouldn’t be firing up the computer now and praying to the search engine gods that he finds whatever guy his kid’s got the hots for and make sure that Kurt’s heart isn’t in danger of being trampled on. “This guy got a name?”   
  
“Blaine.”   
  
The name rings a bell for some reason or another, and it’s unusual enough that Burt decides to take the plunge, quickly darting over to the office — (“Dad, you still there?” “Uh, yeah, just tryin’ to get somewhere I won’t accidentally wake Carole up, you know she gets up real early for work.”) — to boot the desktop, which slowly whirs to life.   
  
“Do I know this kid?” he asks anyway, curious to see if Kurt’s got anything he plans on coughing up.   
  
“I’m almost certain that the two of you aren’t acquainted, no,” replies Kurt, and Burt may not be the best person at twisting or unraveling his son’s words, there’s definitely something too precise about it. (He’s not being paranoid, right? It’s okay to want to watch out for his kid, isn’t it? Kid hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school.)  
  
“Well,” he stammers, nudging the machine impatiently with his toe. “Tell me more, son. What’s he like, how’d you meet him, does he have a good sense of fashion — or, heck, tell me how good of a kisser he is.”   
  
The pause on the other end of the line is more obvious this time.   
  
When Kurt speaks up again, it’s quiet. “…you want to hear about the kiss?”   
  
Brows furrowing, Burt nods, even where his son has no way of seeing. “Hell  _yeah_ . Why the hell wouldn’t I want to hear about my son’s first real kiss?” he asks, incredulous. “Sure, I may not get the appeal of kissin’ a dude, but a good kiss is a good kiss no matter how you cut it.”   
  
After a few seconds, he taps on the receiver.   
  
“Kurt? Kurt, you still with me?”   
  
“I love you, dad.”   
  
To heck with the computer.   
  
“I love you too, Kurt.”

* * *

Maybe Burt regrets asking for the details of the kiss a little bit, at least in timing. Apparently, describing every last detail of the kiss itself isn’t enough for Kurt; it’s gotta come with the first meeting, impressions, dates of a questionable nature, has to include how Rachel was super pumped for it and clearly gave her implicit mark of approval, and a whole lot of other details that Burt just ain’t for the mind for at that time of night.   
  
The search gets temporarily abandoned.   
  
Nevertheless, all returns to normal the moment he sits down for breakfast with Carole, foot bouncing against his calf. The coffee probably doesn’t help.   
  
Still dressed in her fluffy cotton robe — and beautiful as ever — Carole slides into the seat across the table and tilts her head to get a better look at her husband. “Why are you so nervous? Didn’t you give Kurt the talk when he was in high school? Let the kid live a little; he’s well into the age where drunken cabals have lost the most of their shine.”   
  
“Yeah, I kinda gave him the talk, I guess.”   
  
“…kinda?”  
  
Burt shifts uncomfortably in his chair, brows furrowed. “Well I gave him some pamphlets after Emma finally made me come around,” he explains with a wave of his hand, “though I didn’t really read too much into them and I wasn’t exactly, you know, keen on watching two guys do it just so that I could explain the mechanics to Kurt. I kinda figured he probably already did that all on his own.”   
  
“Wait, Burt,” Carole interrupts, expression suddenly mirroring her husband’s. “You can’t mean to say that Kurt’s entire knowledge of sex comes down to what was written in Emma’s pamphlets — Finn told me back in the day that she performed ‘Afternoon Delight’ in front of the kids, thinking that it was a song about enjoying apple pie in the middle of the day.”   
  
And Burt Hummel may not be one for blanching, but he feels pretty damn terrified right now.   
  
“I gotta fix this,” he declares. “I gotta — I gotta figure out a way to make sure he’s got this covered, maybe enlist the help of the Berrys, they should know what to do. I just don’t know when Kurt’s schedule’s gonna free up next; it feels like he’s always jumpin’ from performance to performance. Can’t even tell you how surprised I was to see him on the caller ID.”   
  
“Well,  _fortunately_ ,” Carole nods as she holds a steaming cup of coffee, “I don’t think Kurt’s the type to do anything strange within days of meeting a guy. He went for how long again before going there with Trent?”   
  
“Carole, Kurt’s barely known this Blaine guy for two days and they’re already mackin’ on each other. I’m telling you, the more I think about it, the more nervous I get—”   
  
“Wait.”   
  
Burt looks up inquisitively.   
  
“New York’s a big city and all, but by Blaine, you don’t think Kurt happens to mean Blaine Anderson, breakout pop star, do you? I mean, what would be the odds?”   
  
Burt doesn’t stop to wonder.


	10. Act X: Blaine

“What if this guy is just after your fame?”

“Wes—”

“All I want is for you to seriously consider the question, Blaine. What if this guy is just after your fame?”

Blaine closes his eyes, gaze rolling up towards the ceiling of the plane as passengers filter onto the plane, the occasional passerby whispering excitedly under their breath. While first class seating fortunately affords them some amount of privacy, Blaine’s starting to wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to sit in coach, where the high density of people could probably keep Wes quiet, and where the crowd might be enough to offer Blaine some amount of cover. Instead, he finds his words cut off long before he can begin to build a case in Kurt’s defense, sighing in frustration as Wes speaks on.

It’s going to be a long flight.

“Blaine, you have to understand, in the many years that I’ve come to know you, you have always shown yourself to be an incredibly trusting person. Sometimes, in fact, to your detriment.”

Cracking open an eye, Blaine raises a brow in question. “Are you seriously about to bring that up again? As far as I remember, I wasn’t exactly the only person who caved under the weight and persuasion of Sebastian Smythe’s slippery tongue.”

Rifling through the seat side compartment next to him, Wes slips a couple of file folders inside, rearranging them with slightly frenzied motions. “Not the board’s finest hour, appointing him to a leadership position, but fortunately you always had the upper hand in charisma,” he remarks, spinning a blue ballpoint pen in his palm. “Whatever underhanded tactics Sebastian wanted to use against the other choirs in the region never would have passed against your voice of reason, at the end of the day.”

“My point being that there’s always a chance that a stranger doesn’t have our best interests at heart, but that’s no reason to lose faith in people altogether,” Blaine argues, folding his hands neatly on his lap and nodding with a smile as the flight attendants pass by him for the third time in as many minutes. “I actually think that it’s kind of unfortunate, Wes, that you have this incredibly cynical view of people. You always assume the worst before you consider more forgiving possibilities. It can’t hurt to trust someone once in a while, can it?”

“I’m not worried about protecting my own interests,” reminds Wes, patting his armrest. “I’m worried about you and yours.” His brow’s more deeply furrowed than Blaine can ever remember it being before, and suddenly Blaine realizes that this is the first time since his big hit, really, that Blaine’s considered actually dating, or juggling any amount of his personal life with a career. The deeper Wes’ frown grows, the more widely Blaine grins, too endeared to be irritated with his friend for long.

“You’re  _adorable_ , Wes. Absolutely adorable. I can say with certainty that my mother will never have to worry about my welfare while you’re around; you’re doing a great job of calling forth a similar voice of reason.”

“You’re comparing me to your mother?”

Blaine nods firmly, chin slightly raised in the air. “I am comparing you to my mother,” he confirms with a nod and a wag of his chin. “At least I’ll never have to worry about feeling homesick with you around.”

“The key difference being that I don’t have any level of maternal love to keep me from reminding you, constantly, how much trouble you’ve caused by ditching the recording session for a date. You’re a  _Warbler_ , Blaine; since when does anyone take precedence over spreading the love of song?” Cheeks faintly dusted with pink, Wes reaches forward again to tug a few folders out of the seatback pocket, setting them gently on his lap. A brief glance in their direction tells Blaine that Wes is working on finding recording studios out in Chicago, if anyone can believe it, and he groans at the mere thought of squeezing studio time between shows, sinking further into his seat.

“Slave driver,” Blaine mutters, even as his lips curve in a slight grin.

Half an hour passes before they’re finally allowed to use approved electronic equipment; Blaine immediately pulls out his laptop and iPod, soon bobbing his way to the original Broadway cast recording of  _42nd Street_  as he takes advantage of the plane’s wifi, checking all of the usual funnels for a bit of a laugh — his Twitter feed is entirely taken up by friends trying to decipher one of Cher’s most recent tweets, facebook is sadly flooded by fans who’ve managed to find his actual account and to the point where Blaine thinks he might have to open up a fan page to funnel people to instead, and Tumblr’s somehow already begun posting pictures of him on this very flight. (He checks for himself periodically, finding it to be the best way to receive forewarning on scandals and potential tabloid headlines.) A glance to the side tells him that Wes is already out for the count, his temple pressed up against the cushions lining the headrest, and Blaine’s grin grows sharp with mischief as he reaches out to toggle with Wes’ chair settings, raising the footrest and lowering the back until he’s lying flat on his side.

“That’ll keep you out for a while,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself and taking a risk by tugging the airplane blanket up and under Wes’ chin. Crouched slightly to prevent his head colliding with the overhead compartments, it’s only after glancing over the side of the chair that it becomes obvious that Wes has been working himself closer to the bone than usual, dark circles under his eyes clear even in sleep.

Okay, maybe Blaine feels a  _little_  bad for standing the recording up.

Chewing thoughtfully on his thumbnail, Blaine settles back down in his own chair, foot bobbing in the air in his restlessness. There’s no one around for him to talk to, not unless he wants to chance drawing the attention of the flight attendants, who already seem to be a bit distracted from their actual job. Letting out a sigh through his teeth, Blaine taps at the corner of his laptop, a steady rat-a-tat as he scrolls through his facebook feed. That’s when he spots it:

>   
> **Kurt Hummel**  Chicago loves you! Break a leg!  
>  'bout one turn o' yer hourglass ago • Arrr, This be pleasin' to me eye.

  
  
Quickly turning to look behind him — immediately, he wonders  _why_  he’s done such a thing; all that there is behind him is the wall between first class and coach, there’s no need to worry, he’s being ridiculous — Blaine then clicks on Kurt’s name, heart leaping into his throat when it takes him to Kurt’s page, the real thing, the main image which stretches across the page being of Kurt and his friends in New York. They look impossibly young, maybe not even out of high school, Rachel Berry easily spotted among the rest in a coat striped in bright colors and a million-watt smile on her face, and Kurt the most noticeable of all, staring up at the skyscrapers with a breathless look in his eyes, like the city’s the only place he’s ever belonged. And right then, Blaine Anderson’s pretty sure that he’s about to become the first person to ever be envious of a city for all the joy it’s given Kurt.  
  
Blaine notices that there’s a friend request waiting for him on Kurt’s page, and he accepts it without pause, biting down on his lip at the hundreds of pictures suddenly at his disposal. They’re snapshots of Kurt’s life, ranging from freckled middle school photos to blurry snapshots from show choir performances, Kurt looking sharp in a black vest and white tie; Blaine’s not sure how he managed to miss that those few years ago. There are pictures with an ex-boyfriend grinning widely, hair a soft chestnut brown — photos that twist Blaine’s stomach lightly, though he can’t bring himself to hate the guy for how happy Kurt looks with him, the only pictures where Kurt’s hair seems mussed from hugs, embraces, whatever the two got up to back in the day.  
  
It’s disheartening and adorable all at once, the fact that there’s so much about Kurt that Blaine can’t even begin to know, but that everything that Blaine’s seen only draws his interest in more. There’s a man featured in so many of the photographs, hair long since receded and almost always seen with a baseball cap jammed on his head, and although there’s not too great of a familial resemblance, Blaine  _knows_  that this man is Kurt’s father for all the pride that there is in his eyes, shining through graduation photos, through apparent campus tours, and even on the way to the stage door.  
  
He wishes that his own father would ever come to a gig, or to a concert, but it’s just not appropriate. This whole career isn’t what was pictured for Blaine Anderson growing up, not an Ivy League shield or a law degree. Not even enough to yield a decent female companion.  
  
When the red notification pops up in the upper left corner, marking a message in his inbox, Blaine sighs with relief, sliding his cursor on over as he clicks away from Kurt’s page at last.  
  


>   
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Took you long enough!  
>  Septembarrr 21  
> 

  
  
Peeking carefully in Wes’ direction, fortunately finding the other young man asleep, Blaine quickly clicks on the message and types as quietly as he can manage.   
  


>   
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Hey, you should feel special! I'm not a big Facebook kind of guy. Were I not on the plane and bored out of my wits, the fans would have flooded your message out entirely. :P  
>  43 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  They have Wifi on the plane?  
>  42 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  First class comes with free Wifi.  
>  Upgrading has its perks.  
>  Connection's kind of slow, though.  
>  40 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  You and your top 40, first class brand of life. I wish I could turn my nose up at it all, but I'd be a sucker for first class travel.  
>  40 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  I think it'd suit you! Or at least, that you would be able to tell the difference between merlot and cabernet sauvignon...  
>  38 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Oh, Blaine. Yes. Yes, I could tell you the difference between the two.  
>  37 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  I remarked that the vin du jour tasted "woody" once, and the flight attendant simply laughed at me.  
>  I thought it'd help me sound learned.  
>  Apparently I was just airing my incompetence.  
>  34 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Well, maybe once you get back, I can help you navigate Bacchus' waters.  
>  33 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Gasp! :o  
>  Kurt Hummel, was that you asking me out on a date?  
>  Or hinting.  
>  Before you swing into denial, know that my answer is yes.  
>  31 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  It could be a date.  
>  29 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Still playing hard to get, Hummel.  
>  28 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  If it makes you feel any better, I told my dad about you.  
>  Although I doubt there'll be a need for a meet and greet until if/when we hit a round dozen dates, so no need to panic.  
>  He might be running a background check as we speak, though.  
>  26 shots o' rum ago

  
  
Brow furrowing, Blaine finds his fingers frozen over the keys, eyes still caught on the first line of Kurt’s last message. Kurt’s told his father. Kurt’s told his father, and though it seems like such an insurmountable hurdle to Blaine, Kurt speaks of it all like it’s nothing. Or something to be expected. Something twists in Blaine’s chest as he leans back from where he’s started crouching over the laptop, rolling his shoulders to relieve them of the tension. Hand poised over his touchpad, he opens up a new tab, glancing again at Kurt’s father. Burt, his tag reads.  _Proud_ , his eyes read.  
  
He should have realized earlier, should have put two and two together — Kurt’s photos certainly contain no shortage of this Trent Nixon fellow, a doting and accepting father would notice. Yet the idea of coming out safely to anyone, save for the Warblers, feels so foreign to Blaine. Only when the red notification pops up again on his window does he start, realizing that he’s left the conversation to the wayside.  
  


>   
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  ...Blaine?  
>  21 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Sorry! Was glancing through your photos from NYADA. And high school show choir. :P  
>  19 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Oh dear god.  
>  You should stop before the lovely impression I've made these past few days goes out the window.  
>  18 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Nonsense. You're *adorable*.  
>  Also, it's totally fine that your dad knows.  
>  Actually, I think it's pretty awesome that he does.  
>  Not that I'm ready to meet the parents yet.  
>  16 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Second date first?  
>  14 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Second date first.  
>  Any food preference? Maybe we could try Chinatown.  
>  12 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  I was thinking we could stay inside, actually.  
>  My roommate's going to be away that weekend. We could avoid the crowds.  
>  I'm afraid I won't be able to offer much help in getting to my place unscathed, though. Unless you want to borrow my driver. She's a big fan.  
>  9 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  Shit, have to turn off the laptop.  
>  But sounds good.  
>  Can I call you later? Email? Skype?  
>  7 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Kurt Hummel**  
>  Go, go!  
>  I'll message you with contact details, don't get in trouble!5 shots o' rum ago
> 
> **Blaine Anderson**  
>  :P  
>  Talk soon!  
>  a few grains o' sand ago

  
  
Smiling sheepishly at the flight attendant who leans over to tap his tray, Blaine throws a broad smile in her direction — nothing can throw him right now, not with the prospect of chatting with Kurt whenever the both of them have a chance to breathe, nor with the prospect of visiting Kurt’s apartment in a couple of weeks. It’s ridiculous how much his cheeks ache; you’d think that he’s never been to someone’s place before. Fortunately, by the time Wes jolts up and out of the much-deserved nap — (“Why didn’t you  _wake_  me? Now I’m behind on all this paperwork, when am I going to find the time?”) — Blaine’s able to offer a calm shrug, hands folded neatly on his lap.  
  
“You’re wrong, by the way,” he tells Wes as the plane lurches, sending his stomach through somersaults.  
  
“Wrong?”  
  
“Kurt’s not in it for the fame. I’d be willing to place a bet on it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image that Kurt’s using on his facebook is [this picture](http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/_/63086819/Glee+Cast+Glee+New+York+5.png). And yes, Blaine’s facebook is set to English (Pirate).


	11. Act XI: Kurt

For weeks, Kurt keeps an eye on YouTube as new recordings of concerts crop up by the dozens. They’re labeled according to city — Chicago, Omaha, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle — but the effect of each is the same, some venue with vivid lights that cast Blaine in any number of hues, from bright fuchsia to the calm cerulean of the sea. Even if kids’ phones these days are truly capable of recording in high-definition, the sparks and smoke used in every performance still ruin any chance Kurt has of getting a good glimpse of Blaine, a cloud of gray consistently getting in the way. It bothers him more than he’d like to admit.

“You’re not Lady Gaga, Blaine, ease up on the pyrotechnics,” he mutters under his breath as the fifth recording from Seattle once again proves to be full of blasts, sparks, and far too little of Blaine’s actual voice. And maybe it makes him a bit of a musical snob, but seriously? Blaine could do better.

Blaine’s voice and charisma alone could take him far, Kurt’s sure.

What he ends up looking forward to are the text messages. Speckled throughout the concerts, Kurt’s pretty sure that Blaine must have that phone hooked to his hip or something; the texts come with such frequency. They’re a random mix of anecdotes and minor complaints, a constant bet between the two of them on what common fan reactions Blaine will catch that evening — Kurt’s a bit convinced that  _some_  fan is going to get arrested by the tour’s end, but Blaine holds out hope — and occasionally requests for advice on which type of drink might be better for the throat: mint tea or hot water.

_Add lemon and honey_ , Kurt tells him, even if his preference is probably more habit and tradition than it is necessarily effective, the trade secrets shared between himself and Rachel long before either of them had the expertise to offer that advice with any level of confidence.

Although the calendar which hangs on Kurt’s wall is carefully unmarked for the occasion, Kurt not wanting to risk seeming too eager or desperate with the scrawl of bright red X’s over the page, he’s pretty sure that he’s glanced in its direction often enough for the precise placement of the lines to have burned into his retinas long ago. It’s a good thing that his roommate’s been as preoccupied as Kurt himself has been; the sudden new obsession seems to escape notice as Mike whirls about the place and calls up any number of trip advisors, panicking whenever his last minute plans fall through.

“This is why you start planning weeks in advance. Holiday weekends that fall smack dab in the middle of autumn aren’t going to go unnoticed by the masses. Everyone’s planning ahead,” Kurt points out.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Forgive me for wanting to be a little more spontaneous and less regimented. Kurt, if I went on the type of vacation you tend to plan, it wouldn’t be a vacation to me. And I’m probably sure that my girlfriend agrees.”

“Someday, you’ll come to appreciate order and predictability.”

Friday takes an eternity to arrive, but eventually it’s Thursday evening and the packs which have accumulated over the past few weeks are vanishing at last, one by one as they get piled into the back of Mike’s jeep for a weekend getaway at Mount Greylock. After well wishes and a high pile of pastries pressed into Mike’s hands — the result of two days’ worth of stress baking — Kurt finally settles on his bed, the latest episode of  _Project Runway_  playing on the television. On the edge of the mattress rests his cell phone, and even if Kurt knows that the alert’s set to light upon receiving a message, he slides the lock every few minutes regardless.

On the seventh go, a message arrives before the phone has the chance to dim.

**Blaine (11:27)**   
Coming home :)

In the process of trying to send a reply, the phone slips from Kurt’s hands and falls to the ground — causing the first dent in nearly two years. 

* * *

A knock on the door seems to sound right into the center of Kurt’s chest as he jolts awake with a gasp. For a second, he finds himself terrified that he’s somehow managed to oversleep to the point of missing the sun entirely with the apartment cast in a faint shade of purple, but the clock reads six in the morning, and he heaves a small sigh of relief. He first woke up about an hour ago, spending the majority of the time since on his hair, before realizing the very real drawbacks of waking before the sun rises when Blaine isn’t even expected at the apartment until noon. Kurt has always been a firm advocate of sleep, regardless of whether or not those hours have shifted since his arrival in New York; he can’t fathom the notion of lasting a full day without some type of nap in the middle. Certainly if he plans on aging gracefully.   
  
With a small huff into his hand and a glance in the direction of the mirrored dance room, Kurt decides that he looks passable enough to greet the delivery guy for the five seconds to sign for whatever parcel he has to drop off. Smoothing down the wrinkles of his faded Vivienne Westwood denim shirt, he manages a sunny smile as he tugs the door open, faltering only slightly in confusion when the sound of chatter filters in from outside, and coming to a complete stop once he makes eye contact.   
  
“Surprised to see me?” Blaine asks, immediately taking a step forward to lean against the door frame with a casual shrug, each individual eyelash visible from so close a distance.   
  
Feeling his cheeks flush hotly, Kurt’s hand quickly rises to press his lips shut, allowing himself a few seconds before he even tries to speak — and considering the undignified squeak that slips from his mouth when he does, Kurt’s guessing those few seconds were pretty crucial. “You’re — you’re early, I — I wasn’t even expecting you to get here until noon, or  _maybe_  eleven if you were eager, but I thought you’d be exhausted from your trip and I fully expected to have to wait a fashionably late fifteen minutes or wait while you reaped the consequences of trying to navigate this part of town at eleven in the morning on a Friday, which is  _insane_ .”   
  
Glancing to the side, Kurt’s eyes widen at the sight of a guitar case and a carry-on suitcase. “Is that — did we agree on you staying the night?”   
  
Laughing incredulously as Kurt’s words end with another undignified squawk, Blaine shakes his head and reaches out to wrap his arm around Kurt’s waist, fingers splaying over the small of his back and rubbing in small, comforting circles. “Hey,” he says, nose wrinkling in amusement. “Breathe. I just came from the airport, that’s why I have all this stuff with me.”   
  
“A-airport,” Kurt mumbles, shifting slightly at the feel of the hand against his back, however welcome it may be. “Right. Obviously.”  
  
“ _Not_  that I have a problem with spending the night, but I figured that was probably a decision that the both of us had to make together,” Blaine continues, managing to keep his arm wrapped around Kurt while he nudged his belongings into the apartment carefully with the heel of his shoe, glancing in brief concentration to keep the wheels from scuffing. “And definitely not a foregone conclusion for a second date. I’m not just some  _floozy_ .”   
  
“Right,” echoes Kurt, blinking as Blaine’s fingers give him another comforting scratch along the spine before Blaine moves away at last, bringing both guitar and suitcase more solidly into the apartment and closing the front door behind them, the white noise of the morning crowd falling to silence.   
  
“I hope you don’t mind that I just invited myself in?” Blaine asks, wincing simultaneously with a smile.   
  
“I would’ve invited you in if I hadn’t just been taken by surprise,” mutters Kurt with a look still dazed as he reaches over to slide the bolt shut, then instinctively gestures for them to step inside, an open living room at the end of the narrow hallway entrance. “Come in. I tend to take off my shoes, but my roommate’s quite the dancer, so don’t worry about the floor if you’d rather keep yours on.”   
  
Easily toeing out of his shoes — or moccasins, if Kurt’s eyes serve, which takes him by slight surprise, because what kind of person does it take to walk in downtown New York with moccasins? — Blaine glances around the apartment, stepping lightly around the kitchen counter, hands resting in his pockets. “Do I get a full tour? Or do you need to shovel a great big mess into your closet before I get to see the bedroom?”   
  
“I’ll have you know that there’s  _never_  a great big mess in my room, thank you very much,” Kurt corrects him with a raise of his chin, letting out a breath he doesn’t quite realize he was holding. “Mike’s room is another story entirely, but given that his life’s a fair amount busier than my own, I try not to give him too much of a hard time. But, ah, yeah. Sure. Full tour, we can do that.”   
  
Smiling still in a manner that Kurt thinks is just about full to burst, Blaine steps closer and raises an eyebrow questioningly before his arms snake around Kurt’s waist, the weight strangely familiar, even though they can’t have experienced it more than twice before. Hands hovering in absolute confusion, Kurt eventually raises them to drape over Blaine’s shoulders, cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. In his dreams, the ones that Kurt never pictured as being realized in the near future, the faceless man in Kurt’s life had always been tall, enough so that Kurt would need to push onto his toes to press a kiss to a chiseled jaw. Now, with the both of them barefoot in the space between living room and kitchen, Kurt finds that there’s a certain intimacy in the way they fit together, his eyes directly meeting Blaine’s own and his arms not straining at all.   
  
And their respective heights are the last thing that’s on Kurt’s mind as Blaine leans in for a kiss, so close that Kurt loses the ability to focus, whether in his mind or on the dark span of lashes over Blaine’s cheeks. He’s breathless again, he feels like he’s been breathless the whole time since he’s met this man, and a part of Kurt’s heart squeezes with the thought — will this sensation ever come to an end?   
  
“I might settle for a tour of the living room,” Blaine murmurs against Kurt’s lips, like he’s hardly ready to give up the contact, hands dragging up Kurt’s sides and fingers kneading, the movement gentle, but enough to send heat shooting to Kurt’s abdomen as he lets out a bright gasp.  
  
There’s a part of him that wants this.  _Has_  wanted this, ever since that random Friday afternoon all those years ago, when Kurt had made his way over to the Westerville Gap — the selection’s always better in Westerville — and overheard Blaine Anderson singing on Valentine's Day. “When I Get You Alone” may not have been Kurt’s first choice for a serenade, but it was certainly a memorable one, the thought of it too easy to call upon late at night, and Kurt feels his heart going pitter-patter against his chest, arms instinctively pulling Blaine closer, until the other boy’s hand starts to rake down his back and settles somewhere considerably lower.   
  
Kurt laughs, and it comes out high and nervous, breaking the moment.   
  
“You okay?” Blaine whispers against the shell of Kurt’s ear, tilting his head just enough to litter Kurt’s cheek with kisses still, speckled down the side of his neck, and Kurt groans in response.   
  
“I — I think,” he stammers, frowning suddenly when he thinks about how many times Blaine must have done this, how  _fast_  the two of them are going. Two weeks apart may have felt like an eternity, it may be longer between dates than Kurt would ever consider ideal, but the fact is that they still haven’t met all that much, the majority of time spent and conversations shared over the impersonal medium of text. He swallows nervously. “I must seem so old-fashioned, getting worked up over a kiss.”   
  
With a soft chuckle, Blaine pulls back enough to meet Kurt’s gaze. “I’m pretty sure I’ve littered at least a dozen in the last minute alone,” he points out, shaking his head in understanding. “If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s me for getting so… excited.”   
  
“I like that you’re excited,” confesses Kurt.   
  
“Yeah?” Blaine’s smile widens as he raises his hand to rest instead along Kurt’s jaw, thumb carefully tracing the features as though to map them, file the memories away for a later date.   
  
Kurt answers with another kiss, trying for insistent as his teeth tug at Blaine’s lower lip, but Kurt doesn’t manage half the finesse he’s hoping for, fumbling instead with a laugh. Blaine’s own is louder in response, hands dropping to Kurt’s hips and tugging the both of them back gently, pulling back to ask with a single look in his eyes. And Kurt nods.   
  
There are half a dozen Blu-ray cases on the coffee table, a wide selection of old Hollywood for both of them to enjoy after lunch, perhaps, or before an early dinner. The space of an hour or two is all that Kurt usually knows when it comes to flexibility, but it’s all been blown out of the water now, the carefully selected cushions with bamboo pillowcases kicked clumsily to the ground as Kurt seats himself suddenly on the couch. Blaine follows closely after, smelling slightly of street-side gasoline, but more so of his cologne, spicy and with a hint of cinnamon, Kurt’s smile widening as he thinks of coffee.   
  
“You’re gorgeous,” says Blaine, his hand now running along the length of Kurt’s thigh and tugging until Kurt’s legs are splayed over the couch, Blaine following as the upholstery puckers under his knees.   
  
“And you’re  _very_  distracting. We were supposed to be watching movies and potentially sharing tapa ideas in the kitchen. I had it all carefully planned. Now you’re throwing me off my g—” Kurt lets out another gasp, softer this time, as a shift of his thigh brushes against unexpected heat, eyes wide with the sudden realization of all that Blaine’s feeling. The realization that none of this is a fevered dream, the details too real and unfamiliar to have been pulled out of thin air, and Blaine’s excited, he’s excited for  _Kurt_ . Knowledge clouds Kurt’s eyes as he stares in return, stamping down the temptation to do something with it, hands closing into fists as he tries to settle the slight blur of his vision.  
  
“Oh, god,” stammers Blaine upon noticing, flush deepening to a sudden red dusted over either cheekbone as he pulls back, fingers dragging down either corner of his mouth. Kurt’s stomach twists with a small jolt of pleasure and pride alike upon seeing how swollen they are, pink and pretty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — god, the last thing I want is for you to think that I’ve come over just for this.” He drops his face into the palms of his hands and shakes his head, fingers threading through the curls.   
  
For his part, Kurt isn’t sure how to start, left unable to breathe one second, and gulping for air and grasping at straws the next. His corner of the couch feels cold, enough that he squirms, pulling himself up and tugging a knee close to his chest. “That’s not what I thought,” Kurt hastens to reassure Blaine, reaching out to squeeze the other boy’s forearm before his gaze glances treacherously low, another wave of heat rising to Kurt’s cheeks as he watches Blaine shift uncomfortably to hide his erection. Kurt feels his own abdomen coiling in response.   
  
There’s a part of him that wants this, to have it all said and done with, to ride the passion and enthusiasm and never give a damn about the consequences, but a greater part of Kurt longs for the romance now, and feels too self-conscious on the whole to leap right into the water.   
  
“So you don’t need to apologize,” Kurt says with a slight shrug, “but maybe we could try that movie?”   
  
With a relieved sigh, Blaine peeks up from his hands, hair in complete disarray as he offers a quick nod and a reflexive smile. “That sounds great,” he agrees, briefly brushing the back of his hand against his nose and shooting a sheepish look to the side and jabbing his thumb in the direction of the hall. “Can I use your bathroom real quick while you set up?”   
  
Giving the neatly arranged row of movies a cynical quirk of his lips, Kurt nods, letting his legs slip back down over the edge of the couch. “Of course,” he replies graciously. “I’ll get the drinks. What do you prefer? I’ve got the whole array of citrus juices, beer, Talking Rain, Fresca, chardonnay, merlot, cabernet sauvignon? Champagne, if we’re in a celebratory mood.”   
  
Quickly stuffing his hands into his pockets, Blaine tilts his head with a grin, playfully tense as he shifts. “Thought you promised that you’d teach me the difference between merlot and cabernet.”   
  
“Red wine it is,” grins Kurt.


	12. Act XII: Blaine

_Gone with the Wind_ , as it turns out, makes for pretty heated and all-too elitist debates with one Kurt Hummel. They fall into an argument over Clark Gable and his slicked-back hair; Kurt’s pretty relentless in critiquing the style, pointing out that it bears no small resemblance to a helmet, plus that there’s no way Scarlett can enjoy threading her fingers through something like that, and for all that Blaine tries to argue that it’s a classic look, cool and clean, Kurt still dissolves into giggles upon hearing that Blaine wore that hairstyle throughout all of high school.

“I thought that was something you did for show choir to appeal to the fifties’ sensibilities that everyone carries on that circuit,” Kurt manages through a spluttering laugh. “I never thought you went around day in and out like that, I can’t —  _how_  on earth did you think that was a good idea?”

“Hey!” Blaine protests, watching his boyfriend writhe about on the couch cushions, possibly staring a bit more than is strictly necessarily, and he thanks the fact that the wine glass in his hand keeps him from taking overly impulsive action. Instead, he wraps his free arm more tightly around Kurt’s waist as they lie there, and when he presses a kiss to the back of Kurt’s neck, he still feels nothing short of triumphant — there were arguments over which of them would be the big spoon, but Blaine’s proud of debating his way out of the height rule. “You  _totally_  had the hots for me, Hummel, don’t deny that you loved the hair.”

“Rumors of my high school obsession have been  _greatly_  exaggerated, I’ll have you know, especially considering that Rachel was the  _only_  one who’s ever bothered spreading them,” Kurt points out, wiggling his hips a bit to press more wholly against Blaine, and Blaine has to wonder if that was intentional, warmth immediately coursing through his veins at the movement. “But no, I didn’t love the hair. I loved the voice. I loved your stage presence, enough that you even convinced me to buy a Katy Perry album, shock horror, but I could’ve gone without the hair gel.” He turns to press a clumsy kiss against Blaine’s jaw, and that alone makes Blaine’s heart feel suddenly full to bursting.

“Oh,  _c’mon_ ,” laughs Blaine, dipping down to press a proper kiss to Kurt’s lips, his fingers tracing a lazy circle over Kurt’s chest. “Like you’re any better, Mr. Can-of-Hairspray-Per-Day.”

With one last nip to Blaine’s lower lip, Kurt turns to take another careful sip of his wine, leaning forward to rest the glass on the coffee table and then turning in Blaine’s arms until they’re face to face, Clark and Vivien forgotten in the background. “The difference being that hairspray is specifically designed to  _preserve_  perfection. Which is not what you’re doing. You’re stamping it down before the true shine of your hair ever has a chance to show.”

“I’m glad that you’re so protective of my boyish locks,” replies Blaine, downing the rest of his own glass with a hearty smack of his lips and stretching to place the glass down on the side table with a quiet tap. Seeing Kurt raise a brow skeptically, Blaine shakes his head with a laugh, leaning down to press a quick peck to the point of Kurt’s nose. “I’ll take it under consideration, I promise. Although I still maintain that you are  _far_  superior to my stylist in terms of taste, so if you’re ever thinking about a career change… it’d guarantee lots of time together.”

Snorting, Kurt shifts up until he’s able to rest his head on the pillows that crush against the armrest of the couch. “You assume that I’d even want to see your helpless face on so regular a basis,” scoffs Kurt. “When really, I’m starting to think that once every three weeks is already overkill.”

“Cruel,” Blaine laughs, pressing another kiss to Kurt’s lips, then another by the side of his nose, the corner of his eyes, all while his hand continues to run down Kurt’s back in one smooth motion.

* * *

As it turns out, Blaine’s not as good at holding his liquor as he remembers. For months, he found himself with little to no time for socializing, not even for small gigs in bars and coffee shops, the venues that made it possible for him to be where he is today. When he has time off, he tends to spend it on charity work, because Blaine refuses to take all of his successes in stride without giving back as much as he can, helping people who need it most, even if it means occasionally putting up with meals after meals of hospital food. So now, after spending several hours on a plane unable to stomach a thing, and with only a few amuse-bouches — to go with the apértifs, Kurt says — sustaining him, the alcohol takes hold faster than Blaine intended. It doesn’t help that Kurt keeps on refilling his glass before Blaine ever makes it halfway through, a practice that he imagines must be the proper thing to do.   
  
“I’m starting to think you’ve had more than enough to drink,” Kurt says with a laugh, his head resting on Blaine’s lap, and from where he sits, Blaine notes the high flush on Kurt’s cheeks with all too much satisfaction. “You’re going to empty out my wine cabinet, at this rate. And let me tell you, there’s a fair percentage of people out there who experience their worst hangovers after imbibing too much wine.”   
  
Blowing air dismissively between his lips, Blaine shakes his head as he reaches out for the neck of the nearest bottle, and he’s pretty sure that it’s sherry, something sweet on his tongue that he likes because it reminds him of Kurt. His fingers slide around a bit on the glass, like he can’t quite manage a good grip, and for all the warning bells that it should be firing off, all Blaine does is place the (fortunately empty) glass firmly on the ground before taking the bottle again in hand, swirling it about and feeling a bit like Jack Sparrow, he imagines.  _Captain_  Blaine Anderson.   
  
“Oh c’mon, Kurt,” he snorts, reaching down with the intention of patting the other boy’s cheek, but simply brushing it gently against the shadow of the hollow instead. “I’ve only had, like, _one_  drink. That’s hardly enough to call it a night. Is it night? Call it a day.”  
  
Snorting, Kurt pushes himself off of Blaine’s lap — “Nooooo, c’mon, come back,” Blaine protests — and reaches out with a careful hand to coax the bottle away from Blaine. Huffing in discontent, Blaine lets his head tilt back until it rests against the couch, eyes falling shut as the world spins around him with such speed that he can only manage a helpless laugh.   
  
“Oh no, no, no,” he hears Kurt protest, and almost instantly, Blaine feels an arm snaking behind his shoulders and pushing him forward until he’s sitting upright, eyes blearily peeking over at a slightly mussed head of chestnut brown hair taking up his line of sight. Before he manages to get a word in edgewise, Kurt hikes his arm yet more securely under Blaine’s, hand pressed tight before he somehow manages to haul both of them to their feet. “You are  _not_  going to spend your drunken nap on my couch. The last thing I need is for you to puke into the leather upholstery, or wake up with a huge crick in your neck — as much as I hate to admit it, cotton sheets with high thread count are an easier sacrifice to make. Allons-y, Blaine, you’re headed to an actual  _bed_ .”   
  
It takes a few seconds for Kurt’s words to hit. Eyes wide, Blaine turns to Kurt with a smile, determinedly gathering all the balance he can to stay upright on his feet. “Guess this means I get that bedroom tour,” he muses softly, dazed, with thoughts slipping out between his lips long before he can try to stop them.   
  
They’re stumbling towards the bedroom before Blaine’s quite able to catch up with his feet, but for all that he’s tempted to bury his face in the warmth that Kurt presses all down his side, the haze of wine vanishes a bit with the creak of the door opening. His eyes start to rove greedily, bits of pieces of Kurt scattered around the room. It’s a clean design, eggshell white walls and deep red bedspread, old books along the shelves that line the far wall with gilded gold inlaid to their spines. Large chess pieces, bright and chrome, serve as weights against the books to keep the rows from toppling. It’s unlike Blaine’s room in every single way, the white inviting somehow in a way that Blaine had never believed the color could be, and when he’s settled down on the mattress, he turns an impossibly bright smile towards Kurt, legs swinging off the side of the mattress and unable, for all of its height, to quite reach the floor.   
  
“This… is  _perfect_ ,” he tells Kurt earnestly, reaching a hand out to where Kurt stands just a step or two away, seemingly stifling a giggle into the palm of his hand. “The style’s just, I  _love_ red for you, it’s bright and bold and — pretend that I know  _anything_  about interior design for a moment and — but it’s not trying too hard, you know? — and  _Kurt_ , you don’t understand, every single time I push to learn more about you, I find more reasons to fall in love with you.”   
  
He spots a flush rising quickly to Kurt’s cheeks, a high dusting as the rest of his face seems to blanch, the effect pulling another chuckle from Blaine’s lips as he finally manages to grab at one of Kurt’s hands, pulling him close until Blaine’s able to run his free hand down the length of Kurt’s spine, fingers kneading muscles that feel surprisingly tense to the touch.   
  
“Kurt, sit with me,” he begs, turning bright eyes up to meet Kurt’s, the color darker than he remembers.   
  
“O-okay,” he hears Kurt breathe, and it’s all the permission Blaine needs to run his hand down the back of Kurt’s thigh, wrapping the other arm around his waist and pulling Kurt close. There’s too much fabric in the way, a starched shirt and some type of textured undershirt below, but still Blaine presses a kiss or two along Kurt’s side, tugging more insistently at Kurt’s leg until he feels a knee pressing down on the space beside him, sheets puckering under the new weight.  
  
“ _Kurt_ ,” Blaine repeats, mumbling as he continues to litter kisses through the fabric of Kurt’s clothes, pressing a little more insistently and chasing after the warmth of Kurt’s body when he feels fingers threading through his hair, and it takes restraint for Blaine to bite down the order to tell Kurt to  _tug_ . Something else soon distracts him besides, those same fingers tightening in Blaine’s hair and a sharp gasp uttered from up above as Blaine clumsily turns his face to the left, wondering what he’s done, if he makes a mistake. Cracking his eyes open, that’s when Blaine realizes where exactly his cheek rests.  _Oh_ .   
  
The sight of it makes him whine, seeing Kurt half-hard, noticeable even through the tight jeans that Kurt seems to favor. Curiously, Blaine runs his knuckles along the length.   
  
“Haaah,” wavers Kurt, the sound ending in a harsh pant on his lips, and Blaine groans in response, feeling pleasure shoot straight to his abdomen with a sharp twist as he drags his fingers down Kurt’s back again, hooking under the waistband of his jeans.   
  
“Come here,” he murmurs, heart thudding harshly against his chest when Kurt does.   
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Blaine realizes that Kurt’s probably all manner of conservative when it comes to moving ahead in the bedroom. Because Blaine can’t imagine getting so excited over a date otherwise, no matter how seemingly perfect — a first date is great at gauging potential, but it’s far from a promise. And he can’t imagine, knowing that a boyfriend’s about to arrive at the door, wearing as many layers as Kurt’s got on now, a line of the tiniest buttons drawn down his shirt that Blaine plays with as soon as they’ve both settled on the mattress, his knees resting at either side of Kurt’s hips. He fumbles with the glittering buttons, unfastening them one by one with all the curiosity of a bird, faint frustration burning underneath. It worsens when he glances up, catches sight of the wide eyes that Kurt has turned on him, and suddenly Blaine thinks it wouldn’t be too much a loss for either of them if Blaine just tugged on that shirt until the buttons went flying.   
  
He doesn’t, though. Blaine knows better than that.   
  
Yes, distantly, Blaine recognizes that he’s gone further, that he has the upper hand physically, if not emotionally. It changes his touch, soft as he drags his palm up Kurt’s side again, then digs between Kurt’s back and the slick sheets, arm wrapping strongly around the waist and pulling the two of them flush against one another. Feeling Kurt’s length pressed up against his thigh, Blaine’s breath hitches, his hips rocking forward instinctively before he can help himself, a pant falling on his lips.   
  
“S-sorry,” Blaine apologizes, even though he can’t remember why he was sorry in the first place a second later, hearing Kurt’s voice keen in the air and feeling those slender hips pushing back in turn.   
  
“Don’t apologize,” Kurt gasps, his movements clumsy and lacking in direction, just a constant squirm that somehow still manages to make Blaine hard, until he buries a ragged moan against Kurt’s neck.   
  
“We don’t have to,” says Blaine, words passing through his teeth in barely a whisper, but the roll of his hips says otherwise, rutting against Kurt and feeling the mattress dip beneath them. Somehow, when he blinks away from the shadow left by Kurt’s jaw, the whole world out of focus, Blaine notices that the first several buttons have been knocked undone on Kurt’s shirt, the pale expanse of skin underneath calling to him until he can’t keep himself from pressing kisses, from sucking at the pretty skin, pink blooming against the pale hue of Kurt’s complexion. He feels Kurt whine and thrash, and Blaine laughs, because it’s a little bit like making art together, messy and unpredictable but  _beautiful_ , and he can’t wait for the day when they’re both ready to take this further.   
  
“No, I—I know,” Kurt stammers, and Blaine can feel him swallow thickly under the fingers that he rests by the long line of Kurt’s throat. “I’m not ready for everything yet.”   
  
“Everything should be saved for… later,” agrees Blaine, even as his fingers deftly start to tug Kurt’s shirt free from under the belt. “Not after lessons.”  
  
He must have somehow managed a joke, because Kurt laughs then, deep and throaty, and Blaine groans suddenly against Kurt’s skin, forehead pressed to collarbone, when Kurt hikes a leg around Blaine’s waist because that is  _just not fair_  and must be playing foul. “But I… I want this,” Kurt breathes, and that isn’t fair either. “Touching you, and, god, Blaine. I’ve probably dreamed about this long before you knew my name, and I’m  _only_  telling you now because I’m hoping the wine erases it by the time you sober up.”   
  
Brow knitting for a second, Blaine drags himself up by a few inches, never breaking contact with Kurt’s body all the while, until he’s able to press a kiss, deep and searching, to the soft plush of Kurt’s lips. “I don’t think I’m half as drunk as you think I am,” he rasps against Kurt’s lips, the kiss growing more heated by the second.   
  
They fall silent after that, all scrambling limbs and uneven breaths, and there are a few layers shed in the process, until Blaine’s able to run his palm against the side of Kurt’s arm, skin smoother than anything he’s ever felt. Both belts remain tightly notched, because for all that the haze of alcohol is fading into the background, Blaine knows that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself if allowed to travel too far south of the equator, and Kurt deserves better than that,  _anyone_  deserves better than that, and it’s a choice to be guarded to the best of Blaine’s ability until it comes time. He’s sure that it will, anyway, no doubt about that. He can’t see anything interrupting what they have now, hearts not beating quite in time but still carrying a regular rhythm between the two of them, a whine on Kurt’s lips as their hips start knocking against one another more painfully, hands roving wherever they can reach.   
  
There’s a second when Blaine pulls back from a kiss, just enough to catch the glimmer of green in his vision, and everything comes to a screeching halt then as he watches Kurt’s face, perfect hair tousled beyond belief, and harried breath fanning over swollen lips. He etches that look into his memory, leaning forward to press kisses along Kurt’s forehead, cheeks, chin, mapping everything.   
  
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and Blaine brings his hand to Kurt’s chin to stop the other boy from shaking his head, because he  _needs_  Kurt to understand this. “You’re perfect to me.”   
  
They crash together, and that’s perfect too, Blaine crying against Kurt’s neck and the bed creaking under them, his whole body seizing with motion and Kurt’s muscles tensing under Blaine’s grip, the two rocking desperately against one another and riding the high until Blaine hears a soft sigh, contented, by the shell of his ear.

* * *

It’s the sound of an incessantly ringing phone that pulls Blaine out of sleep. Next to him, Kurt shifts under the sheets, cheek pressed heavily against the pillow and a knit forming in his brow, one that Blaine tries his best to smooth away with the careful brush of his thumb. Only when he hears a deeper exhale pass through Kurt’s lips does Blaine turn around, scrambling to reach his phone, somehow struggling to find it in spite of the harsh light that it throws across the room. Pulling out from under the covers with a quick shiver, Blaine curls himself into a chair in the corner of the room and presses his knees tight to his chest.   
  
Squinting at the screen, he lets out a resigned sigh.   
  
“Hey, Wes,” Blaine breathes, turning until he’s facing away from Kurt. “What’s the emergency?”   
  
“I was  _wondering_  when you’d finally answer, you haven’t replied to any of my texts today, I’ve been calling you every couple of hours, and — are you  _whispering?_ ”   
  
Rolling his eyes, Blaine nods. “Yes, Wes, I’m whispering. You know, some of us, albeit not on the cusp of proposing to our significant others, do find ways to keep from being alone at night.”   
  
“Blaine, I’m serious.”   
  
“Okay, okay. Fine. I reiterate: what’s the emergency?”   
  
“You were spotted.”   
  
Brow furrowing, Blaine presses the phone closer to his ear, feeling his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. “What?”   
  
“You were spotted entering Kurt Hummel’s apartment. And the fallout is not good.”


	13. Act XIII: Wes

Life for any sort of celebrity manager isn’t easy — this Wes Montgomery knew before signing up for the job. If anything, his first taste of the difficulty that comes with managing people, particularly peers, was during his time as council member of the Dalton Academy Warblers. Money wasn’t enough to buy happiness, but at Dalton Academy, it was an investment wisely spent. Most clubs were run by the students for the students, instilling in them the ability to take initiative and learn beyond what was required of them, easily helping to distinguish between the leaders and the executers, the people who managed from the background and those who were made to stand in the spotlight, be it as the face of a company or the star of a show. Most importantly, they learned to work with one another, competition within the group discouraged in favor of putting a concerted effort forward to win as a team.

And win they did. Most of the time.

* * *

The truth is, Wes Montgomery remembers Kurt Hummel very well. The likelihood of recruiting a Warbler outside of the Dalton Academy student base was and continues to be next to none — most families in the region simply weren’t able to shell out the money to send their sons to school there, and beyond financial impracticalities, selling the idea of show choir to anyone from a public school was difficult at best — but it didn’t stop the council from laughing over fantasy lineups in their spare time, gathered in the choir room while folding alumni donation letters, a box of pizza carefully resting in a sports towel to keep from smearing on the walnut finish below.   
  
“Jesse St. James,” Thad suggested once, a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Chandley abandoned on his lap as he took a liberal bite of cheese pizza. “He would solve  _all_  of our problems. Face of Vocal Adrenaline? No  _way_  he won’t go far. Not to mention that discipline is practically tattooed on every single member of that choir. Did you know that on average, at least three of their members sustain an injury per performance?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Wes replied, his own slice untouched as he penned signatures on fine card stock, handing each letter over to David, who busied himself with wax seals. “There’s a certain lack of elegance to his performances. It works for Vocal Adrenaline’s style, of course, big and overstated, very nearly painful in their execution. But we’ve never set out to be the most outlandish group. Also consider the lack of versatility. After school, his options are pretty much limited to Broadway or show choir coach, and I’ll bet you that he’s not enough of a team player for the former. Once in the spotlight, always a desire to be in the spotlight. Working from the ground up becomes that much harder.”   
  
“Speaking of people who like the spotlight, what I wouldn’t do to get a voice like Rachel Berry’s on the team,” David whistled, wincing as an extra drop of wax settled on the corner of the sheet. “Might even be worth petitioning to expand into a co-ed school for.”   
  
“That McKinley school has a surprising number of memorable voices, considering how little history their institution has,” remarked Thad, shaking crumbs off of his hands and depositing them on the main rug — earning a scathing look from Wes, which went ignored. “They might become quite the threat, disorganized though they may be.”  
  
“True,” agreed Wes with a frustrated knit of his brow. In all honesty, he couldn’t understand what it was about the New Directions that kept them coming back stronger than ever. As far as he could tell, their performances lacked finesse, and yet the rule of a show choir being dragged down by the weakest member didn’t seem to apply to their school. Certainly not the judges’ decisions. “They have every bit the underdog quality with plenty of unpolished talent. Rachel Berry, Santana Lopez — Mercedes Jones? And Tina… Chang, was it?  _Completely_  underutilized.”   
  
“Strong female voices.” David tapped the stamp against his chin, smearing a touch of red on his skin; neither Thad nor Wes bothered pointing it out. “What about the guys? That really tall one, Finn?”   
  
“Forgettable,” said Wes and Thad in unison, drawing a grin to either of their faces.   
  
“I thought he was charming,” shrugged David, pressing another seal.   
  
“I would recruit the dancer if I could,” Wes mused, scrawling another signature before licking the nub of the pen. “Not that we know how his voice is; it gets drowned out by the rest of them.”   
  
“That seems to be a common theme with their strong dancers, if you also think about the blonde,” David added to nods from the other two. “Best voice among the men is probably the guy with glasses, if you ask me. Can’t remember his name.”   
  
“What about the guy with the hair?”   
  
David and Wes paused at once, glancing over at Thad, who shrugged his shoulders emphatically. While the question seemed to stump David, who busied himself with dropping another seal, Wes paused in his progress to give it some thought. Like so many of the other members, Kurt Hummel — a name that Wes had memorized as one of many, the rule being to note any member of a viably competitive group — was often pushed to the background, usually only stepping forward to deliver a stunner of a solo line with panache and enthusiasm. But in some respects, Wes almost thought that the young man had a tendency of being too loud, too bright, too  _everything_  with that simple goal of hogging the spotlight.   
  
“I don’t think he could be a Warbler,” decided Wes with some hesitation, and they left it at that.

* * *

Over five years later, and Wes’ opinion hasn’t changed much. Since the very moment Wes discovered that Blaine missed a recording session not due to oversight — frankly, with Blaine, it’s  _never_  due to oversight — but because he met a man, Wes has been doing everything in his relative power to learn more about Kurt Hummel and his activities after graduating from high school. A quick sweep of the usual suspects, such as Twitter, Tumblr and facebook have all yielded a fair amount of traffic, considering the fact that Broadway doesn’t necessarily pull in the most tech-savvy group. From the looks of things, Kurt Hummel might have corralled himself a following through his sharp-tongued interviews and painstaking attention to fashion trends just as much as through his practiced countertenor, and therein lies the problem. After years of being stifled by the relatively conservative hearts and minds of the Midwest, Kurt has finally snatched up a spotlight of his very own. And as much as he seems to be getting along with Blaine for now, competing spotlights tend to be risky. The odds of a couple surviving that kind of pressure are slim to none.   
  
Especially a same-sex couple, as much as Wes hates to admit it.   
  
But, again. Managing a celebrity was never supposed to be easy, and as far as Wes is concerned, managing Blaine has been a remarkably smooth ride so far, especially considering the fact that the two of them started out as close friends. Were it not for having been two years Blaine’s senior, Wes isn’t sure that even he would be able to properly put a leash on the guy’s enthusiasm. Wes really isn’t sure where Blaine gets it from, but it’s always been there, a genuine tendency to put his all out in the open for the public to see.  
  
When a sharp knock sounds on the front door of Wes’ apartment, he doesn’t leap to his feet. Doesn’t bolt to the entrance. Instead, he very nearly sighs in relief, because for Blaine to have come so promptly means that he’s taking Wes’ words seriously, and not shrugging them off as he sometimes tends to do, particularly when working on a very heavy schedule. Rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan, Wes casts a glance over towards his kitchen, where a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses rest neatly on the counter, a friendly and calming gesture to help cope with the high-stress act of cleaning up after a paparazzi spree. Training his smile, he opens the door to that familiar head of unruly black curls—   
  
—and coiffed chestnut hair by his side.   
  
Blaine Anderson has  _brought_  Kurt Hummel to Wes’ apartment. Better yet, the only disguise? Aviator and Gucci sunglasses, respectively.   
  
Wes could really just about throttle Blaine right now.   
  
Still, Wes manages to restrain himself, a tight-lipped smile on his face that shows a couple too many teeth as he ushers the pair inside, careful to cast glances in either direction down the building hall. Fortunately, Wes’ pick of apartments has proven more secure than Blaine’s own, the manager perfectly willing to cough up a few extra minutes’ worth of traffic from the Upper West Side in exchange for neighbors who have the decency to treat performers and artists just like everyone else, however famous they may be. It doesn’t, of course, keep his glare from being any less scathing once he closes the door.   
  
“Are you two out of your  _minds?_ ” Wes asks, the volume of his voice reasonable in spite of the harried tone. Desperately trying to cling to order, he watches Blaine head directly for the open living room and breaks instead for the kitchen, reaching into one of the upper cabinets to pull out an extra glass for Kurt. Let it never be said that Warblers don’t have their hearts in the right place.   
  
“And that’s Wes,” Blaine remarks, turning to face Kurt with a smile — a completely  _unconcerned_  smile — on his face. “Former Council member and mother hen of the Dalton Academy Warblers in the year of ‘09-‘10, and now manager of yours truly, breakout star Blaine Anderson.”   
  
Arms crossing tightly over his chest, Kurt throws a wary look in Blaine’s direction, stepping away and towards the counter. “Blaine’s mentioned you a few times,” Kurt says, and Wes feels a modicum of that anger wear away when Kurt holds out his hand, cautious yet firm. “I’m Kurt, and it’s nice to finally meet you, Wes. Contrary to what I’m sure you must be imagining right now, I’m. Well. Not necessarily here with the aim of throwing back the curtains, so to speak.”   
  
Glancing from one boy to the other, Wes calmly holds out the three empty glasses to Kurt. “Help me with the lemonade. I’m getting the feeling we’ll be sitting a while for this talk.”

* * *

It turns out that Wes is right. In spite of trying to keep everything as contained as can be, Wes finds that words alone aren’t enough to pull Blaine back from a sudden desire for grandiose gestures, for interviews where he and Kurt lace hands and find themselves welcomed by the general populace by sheer force of will. The ice in the lemonade’s long since melted, and exactly three laptops are open and scattered on the coffee table, each with a different social feed drawn on their monitors. None of them are wholly positive.   
  
Coming from anyone else, Wes would say that the desire to bowl out of the closet so soon is naïve. But he knows that this isn’t the case with Blaine. All of the Warblers during Blaine’s time at Dalton knew the circumstances of Blaine’s transfer, and watched him gradually change from a tight-lipped and highly suspicious boy to a young who stood tall and proud, if not necessarily branded. No matter what amount of confidence and security Dalton was able to shape for Blaine, if there’s one thing Wes knows, it’s that there’s no way Blaine’s forgotten what it was like to be at the mercy of the bigoted.  
  
And if there’s one thing that all three of them in the room probably know, it’s that the bigots aren’t disappearing anytime soon. Wes’ gaze, however unwilling, darts across the articles again.   
  


>   
> **TEENAGE HEARTTHROB CAUGHT IN THE CLOSET?**
> 
> **BLAINE ANDERSON CAUGHT SPENDING THE NIGHT _WITH A GUY_**
> 
> **IS BLAINE ANDERSON DATING BROADWAY STAR KURT HUMMEL?**   
> 

  
Blaine breaks the lingering silence, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Honestly, I think I’d be setting a good example,” says Blaine, his tone quiet. “It’s still early in my career. If I can keep breaking out chart toppers while out and proud,  _imagine_  the kind of impact that would have on the younger generation. Give them some hope that they’ve got a fighting chance in this industry.”   
  
Glancing up, Kurt remains silent, save for the turn of the mouse wheel as he glances through some of the comments left on the articles, biting down on his lower lip in contemplation.   
  


>   
> _Blainey dates Twinkie? Nooooooo!_   
> _^ he’s not a twink, he’s nearly 25_   
> _^ Age isn’t the only thing that makes a Twink. If it looks like a Twink and it sings like a Twink, it’s a Twink._
> 
> _That’s why I don’t find Hummel’s switch to leading man on Broadway believable._
> 
> _lol come on.  
>  paps hover around uws all the time. if this were happening, we’d have more than a picture of blaine entering an apartment building...._
> 
> _You can’t out someone who’s not gay_   
> 

  
Pulling his gaze away from Kurt, who moves to shift the laptop onto his lap, Wes leans forward, fingers lacing. “It’s still early in your career. You may very well lose all of this momentum if you come out at this point. We’re still trying to break you out of the one-hit wonder some are suggesting you’ll become, Blaine, just  _imagine_  what news like this will do when you’re at such a precarious point in your career. At best, the socially conservative will stop buying your records. At worst, this gets labeled as a publicity stunt and does a different type of damage entirely to your reputation.”   
  
Voice gravelly with frustration, Blaine throws his arm out in frustration, fingers raking through his hair before he leans back against the couch, arms tightly crossed. “I don’t like  _living a lie_ ,” says Blaine, eyes wide and knuckles white where his fingers are bunched around fabric.   
  
“You don’t have to live a lie,” murmurs Wes, raising a placating hand. He feels his heart thudding against his chest, hates every word that falls from his lips. “We don’t have to make a statement. If it’s just once, it’ll blow over.”   
  
“They’ll be on my  _tail_  for the next several weeks, trying to find more fodder for this,” protests Blaine, eyes dark. “What happens the next time I visit Kurt? What happens when we want to get lunch together? Hold hands in Central Park, attend Broadway shows together. Are you telling me that I can’t do any of these things? They’re  _going_  to get another picture sooner or later.”   
  
Wes looks to Kurt for help, but the actor continues to click around on the laptop, the purple light reflecting off the fabric of his shirt. Sighing, Wes raises a hand to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Blaine, you’ve only been dating Kurt for two weeks, is it?”   
  
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll continue going steady, I know we can—”   
  
“All I’m suggesting is for the both of you to keep a low profile. I’m not just speaking as a manager, Blaine, I’m speaking as your friend—”   
  
“I  _DON’T CARE_ .”   
  
Stunned, both Kurt and Wes tense on the spot, gazes turning to Blaine, who suddenly rises to his feet.   
  
“You know exactly what happens if I stay quiet. They assume I’m straight. I just — I just wish we didn’t live in a world where that was  _always_  the assumption and where  _everything_ that falls outside of it isn’t treated like something that needs to be paraded around for show.” Blaine’s hands fall by his sides, practically shaking as they ball into fists. “Why doesn’t a singer need to come out publicly about being straight? You know, I — when I was in high school, the one thing I wanted to see in the next five, ten years was marriage equality. Just across the board. To let any two consenting adults go to the altar and get hitched and have it be  _recognized_  no matter where they live or what they do. But we’re still so far from it, I—”   
  
“Blaine,” Kurt says, quietly.   
  
“I can’t just hide who I  _am_ . I shouldn’t  _have to_ .”   
  
“Blaine,” repeats Kurt, tone more insistent.   
  
“ _What?_ ”   
  
Pausing, his brow furrowed, Kurt shakes his head minutely. “Stop looking at me like I’m your enemy, Blaine, and listen,” he says, watching as Blaine slowly sinks back into his chair. “I think… Wes is right.”   
  
Freezing, Wes turns his gaze more closely to Kurt. Something’s changed in his eyes. Or rather, something that Wes remembers seeing on the spot, it’s heightened now. Strengthened, inexplicably. He wonders if he might have misjudged Kurt after all.   
  
“How can you say that, Kurt? Don’t you want to be able to walk without people suspiciously following us around, without the rumors following us day in and out?”   
  
Kurt’s laugh rings brittle, if quiet, and Wes feels a shiver pass up his spine. “Blaine… I know that you haven’t been following my work or me in general, so I’ll forgive you for being clueless, but sorry to say, that’s kind of my status quo,” says Kurt, his lips curved in a wry grin as he shrugs his shoulders heavily. “I’ve always —  _always_  — found it hard to break past people’s expectations of me as a gay man. I didn’t have to come out in high school, or even in middle school, for people to taunt me. It was taken as granted that that was who I was, and while I’m not  _ashamed_  of it in the slightest, I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t affected me, or my career, or even the way that I feel every day of my life.”   
  
Wes stares at his hands, and starts rubbing the pad of his thumb into the center of his opposite palm.   
  
“I was the same way. When I first made it on Broadway, or even when I was taking classes at NYADA, I thought… that was it. That I was successful enough that I could come out to everyone, to the general public, and be accepted for who I was. But every step along the way, someone told me to be careful. Someone warned me about the attitudes of people out there.” Kurt sighs, not quite crossing his arms, but wrapping them carefully over his stomach. “Starting out, I couldn’t get the leading roles that I wanted, that I worked so  _hard_  for. I knew it would be difficult from the first time I auditioned for the lead in a musical. Tony, in my high school’s production of  _West Side Story_ . My guidance counselor, the school football coach, my own  _choirmate_ , they all laughed at me. I’ve had gay men come up to me remarking that I have a serious case of the ‘gay face,’ which is absolutely  _humiliating_  to hear, might I add.”   
  
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Wes leans forward to take his glass in hand, downing another sip.  
  
“It’s taken years for me to land roles that weren’t either hidden in the background or otherwise felt like stereotyping on stage. And you know what? The moment I did, the moment I got this role in  _42nd Street_ , I didn’t have people congratulating me on being gay and a lead. I had people coming up to me, telling me that they never believed all those ‘vicious rumors.’ _Thanking_  me for bringing classic Broadway back. Or, or things like this.” He hefts the laptop higher, tapping the arrow keys. “Quote: That’s why I don’t find Hummel’s switch to leading man on Broadway believable.”   
  
Blaine’s jaw tenses.   
  
The laptop gets placed on the coffee table again with a tap, and tentatively, Wes watches as Kurt’s hand reaches out for Blaine’s own, trying to pry Blaine’s fingers from where they’re locked in a tight hold.   
  
“I’m not suggesting that you stay in the closet forever. Just like I’m not saying that I’ll stay there forever either. But this isn’t a choice you make after a few tabloid articles,” murmurs Kurt.   
  
After a pause, Blaine exhales, the rhythm shaky.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing to the side and meeting Kurt’s gaze, then Wes’, his eyes still unnaturally bright in the sparsely lit apartment.   
  
Wes pauses, taking a deep breath. “So am I.”


	14. Act XIV: Kurt

It’s a little bit like watching middle school unfold all over again. The two of them make the trek up the stairs in relative silence, glad for the fact that the paparazzi seem to have gone home for the night, the bright lights of the city apparently no competition for the shadows that otherwise blanket the streets, making it impossible to tell apart one person from the next. The past several hours have all been allocated towards thinking up contingency plans, working through the alphabet from A to Z, the proper words to say in response to each potential question the media might have carefully gathered after studying the reactions of other celebrities who’ve undergone similar questioning; Kurt’s exhausted from the effort. Blaine, on the other hand — well, it’s a little bit hard to tell how Blaine feels.

He just looks defeated.

Only once they’re in the main hall of the building does Kurt reach out for Blaine’s hand at last, threading his fingers through Blaine’s for the precious few seconds they have before stepping back into Kurt’s apartment, somehow more serene for the lack of sunlight filtering inside.

“Hey, come on,” says Kurt, tone hopeful as he shuts the door behind them and reaches out for Blaine’s shoulders, simultaneously massaging the rock-hard muscles while easing the coat off his back. “Relax. We’ve still got a whole day left of our extended weekend, but it’s not going to feel like much of a day if you sit there and let the cat run away with your tongue.”

The remark earns a small grin from Blaine, and Kurt feels his heart relax slightly at the sight.

“Sorry,” Blaine murmurs, reaching a hand up to clasp over Kurt’s fingers where they rest on his shoulder. “It’s just a lot to suddenly take in. Sometimes I think I’m still reeling from… being this _person_  at all, you know? I had the spotlight in high school show choir, but I never imagined in my wildest dreams that it would come to this. I never pictured myself getting to a point where my choices would be so closely examined by the whole  _world_ , it feels like.”

Grinning, Kurt leans in to bump his forehead against Blaine’s temple. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Blaine. As far as I’m aware, you’ve only made it platinum in the United States. And you haven’t had an overseas tour yet.”

Mirroring Kurt’s expression, Blaine’s brow furrows in slight exasperation. “Take the single thing from me that I have right now, Hummel, why don’t you.”

With a laugh, Kurt shakes his head and threads his hand more securely with Blaine’s, pulling the both of them back over to the living room couch, bouncing slightly on the cushions and sliding over to the side. “Alright, alright. I’m sure you’re as much of an international phenomenon as an American pop star can ever be,” he concedes, crossing his legs at the knee. “Really though, did you never watch celebrity interviews on YouTube back in the day? The first thing any big celebrity seems to tell you is that the fame isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be. Privacy is practically unheard of once you’re one of the big hitters. And when you’re widely known for your devilishly good looks, who you’re dating automatically shoots up to the top of Google searches.”

“Well… yeah, I did,” pauses Blaine, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But I never really pictured myself being one of the big names. You can’t just go into this business assuming that you’re the next Ryan Gosling.”

While the modesty is endearing, Kurt doesn’t allow either of them to spend too much time on the issue as he gives Blaine a hard, even look, until the other boy settles in more fully among the cushions. “But that’s not what we’re doing,” he says, voice contrastingly quiet. In the distance, he can hear the splash of an errant drop of water from the leaky faucet falling here and there, tapping against the smooth, brushed steel of the sink. “We’re not assuming that you have the benefit of being Ryan Gosling and the force of thousands of 13-year-old girls behind you. Do you, do you mind if I ask — you  _must_  have faced some troubles before regarding your sexuality, right? As happy as I’d be to hear that you’ve managed to escape mostly unscathed until now, let’s face it, we lived in Ohio. Being open back there…”

His voice trails off at the look in Blaine’s eyes, hard and as firm as the line of his mouth. The water drips still into the sink, but for now, Kurt is thankful. Any sound is better than complete silence.

“We really don’t know all that much about each other, do we?” Blaine asks, voice quiet as he leans forward, one hand grasping at the other, muscles drawn tight enough that his knuckles shine white.

“Isn’t that why we’re dating?” Tentatively, Kurt reaches out to rest a hand on Blaine’s, fingertips nudging and trying to help him relax. “Because we’re attracted to each other, but we also want to learn more.”

Resting his free hand by his jaw, Blaine smiles. “You sound like you have some experience with this.”

With a laugh, Kurt’s cheeks tinge a faint pink, his heel tapping nervously against the floor as he curls himself more fully into the corner of the couch, shaking his head. “If by experience you mean times when I’ve observed other people and their dating habits, then sure,” says Kurt, pulling back his hands to hook them over his knee, speaking tongue in cheek. “I’ve probably learned more from watching Rachel cycle through the same three guys repeatedly than anything else. I mean, when heartbreak strikes, it’s usually the best friend who has to sit through and sift through all of that.”

Fingers pressed against his lips, Blaine taps his lower lip before waving one hand vaguely in Kurt’s direction. “So I may have… glanced through your facebook,” he begins, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Mmm, nosy,” teases Kurt, gently. “But I can understand  _that_  particular impulse very well.”

“I was bored, and on a plane, and I wasn’t going to see you for a couple of weeks,” murmurs Blaine with a grin. “I think that’s more than enough to merit a bit of facebook research.”

“Notice that I didn’t say I minded.”

Smiling brighter for a second, Kurt watches as Blaine’s smile fades with the passing seconds, fingers pressed back against his lips once more. “Do you mind if I ask about Trent?”

Eyes widening, Kurt feels his cheeks warm slightly as he dips back against the couch, heart leaping in his chest. He’s thought about Trent recently, if only in passing and while talking to his dad on the phone, but he hasn’t really thought all that deeply. They went their separate ways, they’re still friends on facebook, the kind of friend worth an idle look whenever their name comes up on the feed, but it’s been a long time since Kurt’s been faced with this — a situation that makes it clear that the other person wants to hear as much as he can about the guy. About the history.

It jolts Kurt with the realization that maybe part of why he hasn’t meaningfully revisited those months is because they weren’t ideal. Because there’s still a kind of unease that comes from revisiting fear.

It could be time to change that.

“No, of course not,” he says first with a smile, because that’s the easiest part. There’s nothing that Kurt doesn’t want to share with Blaine in time. He glances down at his knees next, wondering where to begin, and starts when Blaine’s hand suddenly enters his line of sight, wrapping warmly around Kurt’s own. With a smile, Kurt laces their fingers. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. It’s just one of those things where you have to understand the background to really get why… the two of us dated. And why it didn’t work out.”

With an earnest look, eyes wide and watchful, Blaine nods.

“You know, as a kid, I was  _really_  precocious,” begins Kurt, stopping only when Blaine breaks out into laughter, earning a confused arch of Kurt’s brow.

“Sorry, sorry,” breathes Blaine, squeezing Kurt’s hand reassuringly. “When you said ‘background,’ I guess I didn’t realize just how far back you were planning to go.”

“Oh, hush. Just listen.”

Turning to bury his face momentarily against Kurt’s shoulder, Blaine straightens again with a sobered expression, cheeks still faintly colored in amusement — and Kurt thinks, maybe it’s good to break the tension with that first laugh.

“As I was  _saying_  before I was so rudely interrupted,” Kurt continues, earning a wide smile from Blaine. “I was a really precocious kid. My idea of a good time was leafing through dictionaries and encyclopedias and spending all of my time on the Arts channel. Cable was expensive back then, so it was just those few channels being publicly broadcast, but I didn’t mind. I voraciously watched every ballet, every orchestral performance, and every musical number that they showed on that channel. And I was just as watchful when they turned back to standard PBS for the prime children’s show hours. Anyway.

“As a kid, you gain respect from knowing random trivia. And in those crucial first years, you can  _also_  gain respect from having the guts to go out there and boss other kids around. I was king of the plastic playground, always had my own team when we were playing volcano around the jungle gym. But I think it was… in sixth grade when people  _really_  started to notice that I was different. I wasn’t growing as quickly as everyone else, for one, and as all the boys started getting into sports, I found myself gravitating towards the girls. I liked talking about clothes, I never had a fear of the dreaded cooties, and I enjoyed dancing around to Backstreet Boys.”

“‘N Sync’s better,” Blaine interjects, earning another slap against his shoulder.

“Shush. Anyway, I think being so different started to unnerve the other kids. The taller boys, the ones who grew up first — physically, at least — spared nothing as they started shoving me around. And the very moment that there was a  _word_  for what they were targeting in the other kid, be it gay, queer, or worse, that’s what they used. Somehow that was  _worse_  than all of the physical bullying. It was being emotionally abused, really, and as much as I could feel myself burning with anger on the inside, just wanting to get back at them, I didn’t. I mean, maybe I kind of tried — I refused to give up my sense of fashion, I refused to conform to the cotton tees and faded jeans, and I think some people took that as outright defiance. Maybe it  _was_ , in its way.”

Blaine’s gaze breaks for a second, and Kurt tugs on his boyfriend’s hand, until Blaine relents enough to rest his temple against Kurt’s shoulder. Turning, Kurt nestles his nose among Blaine’s curls, pressing a kiss and brushing his thumb over the side of Blaine’s palm.

“It’s funny, though,” Kurt continues, gazing forward again. “That last step was always the hardest. No matter what you did to express yourself as a gay boy, it’s not the same as coming out. And when you hear these remarks leaking out even from the most supportive people you know, like… how you look like an eleven-year-old milkmaid, it sets you back every time. And I guess it comes down to how even if everyone else can tell what you are, the moment you come out, it’s different. That’s you  _accepting_  yourself. Some people can’t take that. They’d rather we be ashamed of what we are.”

Turning, Blaine rests his lips against Kurt’s shoulder, lashes downturned in thought.

“I met Trent in my junior year. We were both  _shopping_ , of all things, wound up in the hair products section of the local Kmart and discovered that, although he tended to be more conservative in his fashion choices, we both styled our hair in the same way — organic, but with no regard for the ozone layer. One thing led to another, and although it took many weeks for us to finally say it, we came out to each other. And I asked him out immediately. Because I thought, for the first time, wow. It might not actually be hopeless for me.” Kurt’s chin drops, tongue quickly running over his lips.

“And that was powerful.”

After a period of silence, Blaine takes a shallow breath. “Did you love him?”

Laughing lightly, with his expression fond, Kurt shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I did,” he admits, turning to look at Blaine, free hand brushing down his cheek. “More like a friend than anything else, though, which is what took a while to realize. We loved doing everything together, and I guarantee you there was no better couple for getting down on the dance floor, so I wanted all of the pieces to fit. He wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted to get on Broadway, New York is a great place for both of those things. But the bullying got worse, and Trent started to pull back, and I found that… I was okay with that. It didn’t break my heart. By the time junior prom rolled around, I wanted to go with the glee club instead, so we kind of ended it there. We weren’t in love, and it wasn’t a risk that I wanted to force him to take as a friend. Everyone deserves to find themselves at their own pace.”

Seeing a question resting on the tip of Blaine’s tongue, Kurt smiles. “We still keep in touch, kind of. Say hi once a year or so. He’s at Columbia Law and has a boyfriend, so it worked out for him, I think, and I couldn’t be happier for him.”

“You… are amazing, Kurt,” breathes Blaine, reaching gently for Kurt’s chin and tilting it until their lips meet in a kiss. With a shuddering inhale, Kurt relaxes, lips parting just so as Blaine slips his tongue inside, running along the roof of Kurt’s mouth. For such a chaste touch, Kurt feels as though all of his layers have been torn down, brushed aside, leaving him open and vulnerable — but it’s okay. Because he feels safe like this with Blaine, feels comforted by the wide hands running up his sides, gentle through the impeccably creased fabric of his shirt. Kurt can hear Blaine’s breath by his ear as the both of them shift on the couch, legs tangled and cushions scattered everywhere, the knit throw knocked askew as Blaine’s hand drags down the back of the couch.

“Do you think things are working out now?” asks Blaine, and when Kurt opens his eyes and blinks them into focus, he notices that Blaine’s eyes look bright again, and he brushes his thumb along the shadow underneath to stave off unshed tears.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I do.”

And maybe it’s a little more desperate than they were last time. Maybe they’re still finding each other, feeling each other out, looking for the aches of hearts too vacant for far too long, hearts made to brim and spill over with love, because that’s who the both of them are. Never meant to live alone, even if they know how to keep their steps even and sure. Their hips rock against one another, but desire keeps itself on a low simmer as Kurt sighs against Blaine’s temple, fingers weaving through his curls and holding on as they find ways to fold into one another for safekeeping. Just until it’s safer to come out, hands clasped under the sun.

For now, he’ll keep Blaine safe with the promise of better times to come.

“What about you, Blaine?” he asks, once the both of them have paused for the time being, nerves still too raw from spending the day discussing ways to hide. Blaine’s arm is thrown across his waist, heavy and warm and reassuring, while Kurt’s own is wrapped around his boyfriend’s shoulders. Their legs are impossibly tangled, stretching over the seat of the couch. Blaine’s hair tickles where it brushes against Kurt’s jaw, but he can’t bring himself to move away from this. It’s not everything he could want, tucked away in a small uptown apartment, but it’s more than he dared ever dream for. “Did you have a better experience than I did? You were so…  _ready_  to come out.”

Blaine holds silent, and with a furrow of his brow, Kurt raises his head a fraction of an inch, glancing down. “Blaine?”

“I wasn’t ready, Kurt. What was you saw today was me being so  _angry_  that I thought I could force myself,” mutters Blaine against the shadow of Kurt’s jaw. “It was stupid.”

“It was  _rash_ ,” Kurt allows with a nod of his head, shifting until he can see Blaine’s eyes again, wiggling a couple of inches down the couch until they rest fully side by side. “But not stupid. It’s not stupid to dream, Blaine. That’s what we need to keep going.”

Rolling his eyes, the corner of his lips trembling, Blaine nods and leans into Kurt’s hands, warm on either cheek. “Hey,” says Kurt, his voice soft. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

After a pause, Blaine shifted on the couch, tugging his arm closer to himself, diagonally placed over his chest. Kurt stamped down the temptation to pull him back. “You know, the only people I’ve ever really come out to are my family, the Warblers, and a few folks during college. Close friends, mostly,” murmurs Blaine, avoiding Kurt’s gaze and staring instead at a worn spot on the couch upholstery. “I actually transferred from public school to Dalton in my sophomore year of high school. I know that students at Dalton are kind of spoiled for how accepting their students are and how safe the halls are. Schools can say that they have a zero tolerance policy for bullying, but Dalton was the only place I really saw keep to that, so. So when I left for college, I wasn’t naïve. I knew that chances were, I wouldn’t be heading somewhere universally accepting. Even at Dalton, it was their policies that kept me safe; it’s not like there weren’t homophobic students there. And I knew the way things had been at my old school.”

Licking his lips, Blaine laughs once, the sound brittle and sharp. “The… reason why I transferred in the first place was actually because, um. At my old school, there was a Sadie Hawkins dance, and I had just come out, so I asked a friend of mine, the only other gay guy in the school,” he continues, arching a brow as his gaze rises to rest around Kurt’s chest, propping himself up on his elbow. “While we were waiting for his dad to pick us up, these three guys. Beat the living crap out of us.”

Kurt blanches, gaze immediately dropping as well.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, even though he knows it won’t be enough. Already, his ears are flushing with the memory of lights shining down, too bright and too invasive, everything around him flooding with white as he stared out at the barely distinguishable faces of the student body. Stares. A barely audible jeer in the background. Silence, waiting for him to buckle.

And Kurt remembers as well, the clang every single time he was shoved into the lockers. As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, what he finds most familiar in Blaine’s expression now is the fear. It grips him still around the chest, makes it hard to breathe.

“I thought coming to New York, I would finally be out. And proud, and all that,” admits Blaine, his voice wavering for a moment. “But it feels like I’m responsible for more than myself now. My voice reaches more people than it ever could as part of that show choir, and I wish that I could help more, and I wish that I could be unafraid. I wish I could just be who I am and not need to hide it for any reason. This is just… a sore spot.”

With his hand brushing up the side of Blaine’s neck, calling his attention back, Kurt ducks down to meet Blaine’s gaze, his own fast and determined. “This is  _perfect_ ,” Kurt insists, leaning up until he can feel Blaine’s breath fanning over his lips, uneven still from recently shared secrets. It’s enough to light a fire in his chest, however much Kurt knows to contain it. “You couldn’t face up to the bullies at your school, so we’ll face the bullies of the world. We can do it together. It may take  _time_ , but, but think about it, Blaine. You are living your dream right now, and I’m living mine. Think about that moment when we’ll finally be able to tell the world, this is who we are, and this is who  _anyone_  can be, living their dreams no matter who tries to stop them.”

When Blaine remains silent, lips slightly parted, Kurt quickly runs his hand down Blaine’s back. “But I have to say, Blaine, that if it makes you feel uncomfortable at all, it doesn’t have to be us,” he says reassuringly. “I want to be with you no matter who knows. And I will never make the decision for you about when to come out.”

Blinking fast, Blaine shakes his head, grasping Kurt’s hand tightly as he leans in, lips pulled thin. “I am  _crazy_  about you,” he whispers against the shell of Kurt’s ear.

“So, I’ll take that to mean we’re in this together?” Kurt murmurs, wrapping his arm around Blaine’s shoulders.

Pressing his nose against Kurt’s temple, Blaine nods.

“Yes.”


	15. Act XV: Mike

“You know, no matter how many times Kurt’s already sent his driver over to help pick us up, it never gets old. It makes me feel like we’re movie stars, with a limousine all pulled out for us.”

“You don’t like my Jeep?”

Balance is a lesson that Michael Robert Chang learned well in high school. Long before he decided to break away from the lifelong expectation that he’d start a career in medicine, he had been managing a perfect grade point average in high school, been a key player in the school’s academic decathlon club, and also maintained active participation on the school’s football team and glee club. On top of that, he even managed what most high school students couldn’t even begin to dream of — a supportive, stable relationship with a girlfriend that lasted the whole of two years leading up to graduation. Granted, they had their hiccups like any other teenage relationship did, but the difference between theirs and the majority, Mike’s found, is that there was always great communication.

“Considering the fact that it was your Jeep which broke down two-thirds of the way into our Mount Greylock getaway, Mike, I think I’m justified in preferring the town car,” Tina points out, hefting her camping pack further up her shoulder and beaming at the spotless black vehicle that pulls up in front of the pair, door opening to reveal Kurt’s driver, beaming at the both of them.

Sometimes Mike gets the feeling that Kurt’s driver  _really_  likes the both of them. More than anyone’s required to like the roommate of the person they work for.

“Thanks so much for coming to pick us up,” Tina greets, holding her arms out for a quick hug, wincing slightly when Beth pulls close. “Ugh, I forgot that I’m all covered in dirt and bark, sorry!”

“As long as I’m allowed to forward you the bill for cleaning the upholstery,” snorts Beth, before narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Catching Mike’s gaze, she winks before Tina can notice. “Bark, huh?”

“We… took the long way on the hike,” Mike admits with a helpless shrug, patting Beth’s shoulder on the turn before he pops open the trunk of the car, hefting the bags and camping packs in.

Communication is still key to their relationship now. Key to any of Mike’s friendships, really, from the few times the former Titans still tweet at each other every month to his daily interactions with Kurt and Rachel. With Kurt in particular, it gets difficult — he can be a pretty private kind of guy, keeping a lot of emotions close to his chest, especially when it comes to the tougher times or frustrations — but they get along, and sometimes Mike harbors the unspoken hope that the two of them might hold a McKinley reunion in their sizable New York apartment someday, inviting over the New Directions for a weekend.

(He still has “Ride With Me” on his iPod, just in case.)

Before he realizes it, Mike’s stuck behind the trunk, an unfocused smile on his face before he becomes aware of the fact that he’s drawing more than a few looks. With a bashful salute, he slams the trunk shut and quickly rounds to the side door of the vehicle, sliding inside and slipping an arm around Tina’s waist. Her hand drops down to his arm, patting in acknowledgment from where she sits, deep in conversation with Beth.

“No, I don’t know if I’m spending the night, depends on how easily I can find a bus back to Boston,” Tina admits, resting her chin on her knuckles as Beth smiles into the rearview mirror. “I assume that Kurt wouldn’t mind either way; the both of us are pretty good about keeping quiet when he needs to focus.”

“When does Berklee’s winter break start?” Beth asks, flicking on the headlights and weaving into traffic.

“Nnnot for a while,” sighs Tina, leaning back into Mike, who rests his chin atop her head as she slumps against his chest. “Unfortunately. Which is why I was pretty excited about this weekend, since it’s the last earnest vacation I’ll have in a while. Actually, I was hoping to catch up with Rachel, although I hear that she’s knee-deep in rehearsals and auditions.”

Beth nods, the motion slow as her eyes widen with a sigh. “Still working on finding her big break,” she agrees, before tilting her head in the direction of the seat pocket. “Well, Tina, regardless of when you head back, I have an assortment of the latest gossip magazines for you to read. I’ve gone through all of them already.” Her lips curve in a mischievous grin.

“Ugh, you are a  _godsend_ ,” exclaims Tina, tugging the magazines onto her lap and immediately flipping through. “The only downside to being completely caught in nature is the lack of juicy celebrity gossip. You never realize how stuck you are on Oh No They Didn’t until you go without for a week.”

Catching Beth’s wink as he leans back in his seat, Mike laughs when the driver turns up the music, a quick beat immediately pumping through the car, bass reverberating in his chest. Moments like these, he’s pretty sure that he leads a charmed life.

_Oh, don’t you tell me no, ‘cause there you go again_

Brow furrowing, Mike glances up. “Hey, isn’t that Blaine Anderson’s new single?”

_You’re ten out of ten; sorry, did I just_

“‘Stutter?’” Mike and Tina ask in unison, each leaning back with a slight doubletake before coming together for a brief kiss, punctuated with laughter.

“It reminds me of her,” Mike remarks, weaving his fingers into Tina’s hair and dropping a quick kiss to her temple. “She used to have a stutter back in high school.”

“Oh god, not that story again,” Tina breathes, shaking her head and turning back to her magazines.

“To answer your  _question_ ,” Beth teases, wagging her finger. “Yes, that would be ‘Stutter,’ Blaine’s new single. You like?”

“Uh,  _yeah_ . He’s just about the most accessible young up-and-comer these days in the music industry,” points out Mike, and it’s true. From what Mike’s seen, that Anderson guy’s capable of anything from covering (and improving) Katy Perry to reinventing Tony Bennett. “At least, that’s what I imagine Mr. Schue would say. My only criticism is that not all of his original songs are easy to dance to. This one’s pretty cool though — I thought the release date was next month. I’ve only heard it before on concert fan recordings on YouTube.”

“I have my ways,” sings Beth, tilting her head back and forth. Raising his brow at her answer, Mike finds himself on the cusp of asking more questions — if there’s anyone in his group of friends who tends to be in the know, somehow it always seems to be Beth. Some secret that private drivers share, perhaps.

Tina interrupts first.

“Oh my god, Mike, look! Kurt made it into  _In Touch_  magazine!” With a small squeal, Tina quickly pushes the magazine closely under Mike’s face, then pulls it away before Mike can get a chance to even finish reading the headline. “Wait, it says here that he’s been spotted with Blaine Anderson.” Eyes wild, Tina glances up at Beth.

“You know about this.”

“Check the latest issue of  _People_ ; he’s got a column mention in there too,” snickers Beth, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips as she turns the volume down. Immediately, Tina shoves aside the issue of  _In Touch_ , letting the pages slide onto Mike’s lap while she fishes through the rest of the pile.

Curious, and shooting a glance Beth’s way, Mike picks up the magazine, uncurling his arm from around Tina’s waist to read the headline.

> _**This Just In: Pop Star Takes a Walk Down Broadway** _
> 
> _He’s one of the nation’s most sought-after pop stars, touring around the United States and even picked up by popular television hosts Ellen Degeneres and David Letterman — but reports say that **Blaine Anderson**  prefers to spend the majority of his time in none other than the Upper West Side of New York City! “There’s just something about the neighborhood that really appeals to my Broadway-loving heart,” Anderson tells In Touch exclusively. “When I was younger, my father took the family on occasional trips to the Big Apple and I always spent the majority of my time out in the cold after a show, shivering in the cold and clutching my Playbills. I love it here; when I’m not touring, this is always the place to be.”_
> 
> _No word yet in response to reports that he’s been spotted often with Broadway breakout star **Kurt Hummel**. Perhaps Anderson will grace the stage in coming months!_

  
“Whoa,  _whoa_ ,” Mike murmurs, eyes wide as he glances up at Beth, then back at the magazine, and up again. “Don’t tell me Kurt’s been shacking it up with Billboard Blaine; what have I missed in the last three days?” His brow furrows, and as much as Mike hates to admit it, he feels almost a little hurt at the idea that Kurt might have had this relationship going on for weeks, months even, without saying a word to Mike. He knows that he’s been busy, and that Kurt’s had his shows besides, but would it hurt to chat a little over lunch now and again?   
  
Maybe there’s a good explanation.   
  
“Just remember, you didn’t hear it from me,” Beth says, pursing her lips. “You read it in the magazines.”   
  
“We need to get to your apartment,  _pronto_ ,” Tina declares.  


* * *

By the time that they reach the apartment, Mike’s finally on… roughly the same page as the girls. Truth be told, he’s still a little bothered by how much he’s been blindsided, and the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if it isn’t Kurt being secretive so much as it is Mike himself not paying enough attention to his bro. He used to be great about attending every one of Kurt’s shows at least once, quickly learning that Kurt preferred to be seen about a couple of weeks into a production rather than at the very beginning, because all roles, he said, required a bit of warm-up to ease in properly. Mike used to be a frequent model for Kurt’s fashion blog as well, apparently having the ideal frame for most men’s couture lines — and it was win-win too, with the blog giving Mike plenty of exposure. Turns out, modeling and dancing have a lot of overlap in this city. But as their careers have started to take off a little more, it’s been harder to squeeze out the time for spontaneous jam sessions or private booty camps for the more complex of choreographies in Kurt’s musicals.  
  
Ultimately, Mike really hopes that Kurt isn’t suddenly in over his head. One thing that most of the New Directions of 2012 share are disastrous first attempts at dating. And if Kurt ends up being as similar there to Rachel Berry as they are in their love of theater and song, then there are  _interesting_  times surely to come.  
  
And Mike thinks: it doesn’t matter how much of a hot shot Blaine Anderson is or how many legions of fans the guy has, if Mike has to use a little intimidation to make sure Kurt doesn’t get short-changed, he’ll do just that.  
  
“Are you okay, honey?” Tina asks in an undertone, eyes narrowing as they climb the steps, heavy packs slowing them down. “You look a little constipated.”  
  
“What — yes, I’m fine,” Mike stammers, lower lip jutting out in dismay. He can’t lose his cool this soon; what if this Blaine guy’s really great for Kurt? The only thing worse than having to tug Kurt away from a bad boy is driving away a potential soulmate. Easy does it, Mike Chang. Assumptions aren’t cool. “And no, I don’t need to use the bathroom.”  
  
“I’m  _sure_  that he’s a great guy, Mike. Kurt’s had plenty of opportunities to date these past few years, and he’s turned practically all of them down,” remarks Tina, hooking her hand on Mike’s shoulder. “He’s careful. And that’s only if he’s even  _dating_  this guy. New York’s too fashion-conscious for my gaydar to work properly around here, so I honestly can’t even guess.”  
  
Again, Mike feels the knit in his brow return as he fumbles with his keys, careful to keep from jamming them into the keyhole but struggling enough with the doorknob to give himself away regardless, opening the door with a sigh. “Yeah, but this guy’s also a pop star, I mean — how do you turn down a pop star, even if they’re a bad idea?” Mike asks, turning into the apartment and glancing around for any sign of Kurt, eyes quickly darting to a couple of wine glasses resting on the coffee table, each tinted with a faint pink hue.  
  
“Nice to know you’re giving me a ‘get out of jail free’ card, but you still worry too much,” Tina concludes, carefully slipping out of her shoes and shuffling inside, setting her bags by the shoe rack.  
  
“Mike! Tina!”  
  
Mike glances up at the sound of a door closing.  
  
Edging out in front of his bedroom door, Kurt’s sporting a light sunburn as he stares at both of them in surprise, expression lightly dazed as Tina rushes forward to give him a hug. “You’re here early!” Kurt says, belatedly returning the embrace.  
  
“Unless we’re here just in time?” Tina murmurs, glancing towards the closed door.  
  
Mike walks on over, offers a heavy pat on Kurt’s shoulder. “Didn’t you send Beth to pick us up?”  
  
“Yes, but she told me that she was taking the both of you out to dinner first; I haven’t even prepared anything here,” babbles Kurt, running his fingers through his hair, looking a little more tousled than usual. “And no,” he adds, looking at Tina. “Not unless you’re just in time to help me clear out all of the junk I’ve somehow accumulated over the course of  _42nd Street_.”  
  
“We can  _always_  order out,” she points out, unfazed and plopping herself down on the couch, ignoring the wince in Kurt’s expression, his eyes quickly taking in the extent of the dirt and grime on her clothing. “Frankly, Kurt, we’ve got more important things to talk about. Even a brief invasion of a city newsstand has your face plastered all over.”  
  
Mike glances back at Kurt, watching closely for his reaction. Tina’s better at badgering than he is, and for once, Mike doesn’t mind if it means getting all his own questions answered in turn.  
  
“Plastered all over — oh  _god_ , Beth blabbed, didn’t she?” Kurt groans, quickly darting by the coffee table and whisking up the two wine glasses over to the kitchen and turning on the water. “That’s the last time I tell her  _anything_  about my private life.”  
  
“So you  _are_  dating that Blaine guy?” Mike follows Kurt into the kitchen, sneaks by the sink to start scrubbing his hands and arms before busying himself with the fridge, tugging out a couple of Capri Suns. “That’s what all the gossip columns are hinting at.”  
  
“And even if you aren’t,” Tina chimes in, resting her arms on the back of the couch, “I hope you realize that I still fully expect you to introduce me to the guy. Because it’s totally unfair that, like, Beth’s gotten to meet him already and I’ve been left completely in the dark. Even if I were back in Ohio and not just a bus ride away, I’d be willing to make the trek out to meet  _Blaine Anderson_ , of all people.”  
  
Groaning, Kurt shakes his head. “Look, guys, if I tell you anything you need to  _promise_  me that you aren’t just going to leak the information out the moment Tina hops on the bus back to Berklee. Not even to the rest of New Directions, okay?”  
  
Mike busies himself with poking the straw into his juice pouch.  
  
Hands carefully folded in his lap, Kurt seats himself down primly next to Tina, expression calm for all of five seconds before he divulges, shoulders immediately hunching. “We’re dating,” he confesses, biting down on his lower lip. “We haven’t been dating for all that  _long_ , granted, but we  _are_  dating. Secretly, though. Because I mean, he’s really successful right now and the last thing he needs — or  _I_  need, for that matter — is for opportunity to shut its door before either of us is ready. But we’re definitely dating, and he’s…  _wonderful_. Beyond my wildest dreams.”  
  
Apparently squeezing a juice pouch after the straw’s been poked in is a quick way to spill juice on the floor. Rolling his eyes at himself, Mike drops a kitchen towel on the ground and wipes up the mess with the toe of his sock, turning to toss the second Capri Sun in Tina’s direction. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asks, slumping into the armchair and crossing one leg over the other at the knee. “If nothing else, I could’ve cleared out earlier to give you alone time with the guy.”  
  
“You were planning this trip with Tina for  _weeks_  and I’m still feeling the relationship out. I always figured that I’d tell you once… things settled a bit. Which they actually did this past weekend,” Kurt shrugs, cheeks deepening in color as he twines his fingers, letting his hands hang. “But you beat me to the punch.”  
  
“So how is it?” Tina interrupts, leaning down to better catch Kurt’s gaze.  
  
“How is what?” Kurt frowns, shaking his head in confusion. “I just told you he was wonderful.”  
  
“No, like… being physically intimate and stuff.”  
  
Presumably breathing down the wrong pipe, Kurt chokes, coughing for air as his face flushes a deep scarlet. “Wh—  _what?_  Where did you get the idea that Blaine and I are… are…?”  
  
“Oh my god.” Tina glances over at Mike for a moment, and it’s enough for him to know that they’re on the same page, a smattering of relief overcoming all else. “He’s a gentleman. Blaine Anderson is a gentleman and  _hasn’t_  pushed the envelope.”  
  
“Dude, that’s really cool,” Mike remarks, pointing the straw of his Capri Sun at Kurt before hooking his legs over the armrest of the chair. “Like a new wave of pop star.”  
  
One of Kurt’s brows is arched sharply, lips stretched thin in discomfort, the expression almost comical — it’s one that he wears when he’s trying to block the outside world away, holding his walls steadfastly up around him. With a hand scratching at his upholstery, Kurt forces himself to sit further back on the couch, until his back presses against the furniture. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” Kurt mutters, both hands raising to press at his temples, eyes wide.   
  
“Oh c’mon, Kurt.” Sliding over on the couch, Tina sports a wide grin as she clamps her hands down on Kurt’s shoulders, squeezing and shaking her friend a little. “We’ve just, you know, really been hoping that you find someone who makes you happy. And you’ve been closed off to the idea for so long that you can’t  _blame_  us for getting pretty excited that you might have finally found a guy.”  
  
“And now everyone’s expecting me to catch up with everyone else,” Kurt breathes, words spilling out one after the other, although he does nothing to shake off Tina’s hold.  
  
“I don’t think that’s what Tina’s trying to say,” Mike pipes up, shaking his head quickly, straw still caught in the corner of his mouth. “There’s no timetable for stuff like this. If you’re not ready, you shouldn’t push yourself — and  _he_  shouldn’t push you either.”  
  
“Totally,” agrees Tina.  
  
Catching Kurt’s gaze, which is still more than a little hesitant and skeptical, Mike grins. “You  _know_  that we’re totally on your side, right? And hey, if you ever need advice on long distance or juggling a relationship with our crazy schedules, you know that I’ve got more than a few tricks up my sleeve.”  
  
“You’ll have to buy an iPad,” Tina says, Kurt glancing over in time for her to press her forehead against his temple. “Trust me on this one.”  
  
Huffing out a disbelieving laugh, Kurt shakes his head. “Thanks,” he grins, smile slightly watery as he lets his weight rest against Tina for a second. “Maybe the next time you’re around, Tina, I can try to arrange for a double date or something. Although we’ll have to be really careful about where we go.”  
  
“God, I thought you’d never ask,” grins Tina, eyes lighting up immediately.  
  
And Mike thinks that Kurt’s probably unleashed a monster.  
  
The both of them immediately break into a brainstorming session, throwing out the name of just about every popular bistro on the Upper West Side, the list long enough to make Mike’s head swim at the hole it’ll carve in his bank account. But there’s something nice to the moment, he has to admit, tuning out the words and instead keeping an eye on the change in Kurt’s posture. It isn’t that he’s holding back his shoulders straighter or standing taller — Kurt’s never had difficulties demanding a proper amount of respect from those around him. Instead, it’s the fact that Kurt’s almost more relaxed, in a way. More than Mike’s ever seen him.  
  
He doesn’t know anything about Blaine Anderson. Nothing other than the songs that the guy releases, at least. But it isn’t too early, Mike thinks, to say that he likes the subtle changes that he’s seeing in his roommate. Or the idea that in this, in romance, which Kurt has held to his chest for so many years, he may finally have found someone to keep him from feeling alone.  
  
Obviously, he’ll need to meet Blaine Anderson, whether or not Tina’s around. Just to make sure Kurt’s not viewing the world through rose-tinted glasses.  
  
But for the moment, it’s just pretty cool.  
  



	16. Act XVI: Blaine

While not typically making a habit out of eavesdropping, Blaine Anderson finds that it’s much harder to stay out of other people’s affairs when his boyfriend, the one he’s crazy about, falls at the center of conversation.

Kurt had forced the both of them to stop in the middle of what was a rather intense make-out session when the sound of keys jangled in the background. Never before had Blaine heard his boyfriend manage to swear so much as Kurt slid over the side of the bed, rushing up to the vanity in the corner of his room to check on the state of his hair and the flush of his cheeks, the latter of which was attended to with a few judicious spritzes of quick-dry body splash. Blaine, for all that he’d already experienced of roommates returning at the most inopportune of times — even when said roommate was Blaine himself — was no less worked up, if perhaps in a different way. A groan served as enough proof as he flopped over onto the bed, stretched out on his stomach as he allowed himself a frustrated huff into the pillow.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to come clean to the roommate,” Blaine had suggested, eventually surfacing just in time to watch Kurt pick himself up and stumble his way on over to the door. “…Kurt.”

Blaine had been rewarded with little more than a constant  _damn it, damn it, damn it_  before Kurt slipped out. And although they hadn’t been dating for all that long, Blaine had known well enough to take that as a sign to give up for the moment, and to revisit that question in a later conversation.

But in retrospect, he thinks that the arrival of the elusive Mike Chang might have been the best thing to happen in the past forty-eight hours.

The thing is, kisses are nice. Kisses with Kurt are  _twice_  that — they’re addicting and intoxicating and sometimes Blaine forgets to breathe when Kurt does this little thing where he pulls back from a kiss only to brush his lips against the shell of Blaine’s ear. No one’s tried that before. For all of Kurt’s lack of experience, he offers twice the amount of care and attention to make up for it.

Blaine can’t imagine anything better than being given the chance to do the same in return. Knowledge is valuable. Crucial, if Blaine plans to keep Kurt comfortable in the relationship, both physically and emotionally. He wants to know everything, making a mental note to help nudge for that double date with Mike and Tina, to find out embarrassing stories and whatever they know about Kurt’s preferences when it comes to relationships. What Kurt’s definition of a great romance is.

By the time he hears the apartment door closing at last and hears Kurt’s eager footsteps trailing back towards the bedroom, Blaine’s sprawled over the bed, pillow tucked under his chin and a broad smile on his face, eyes bright and expectant. Staring at Kurt for what he is — the most beautiful thing Blaine’s ever seen, inside and out.

“God, I thought they’d never leave,” Kurt sighs, seemingly oblivious as he closes the door behind him.

“That was  _cute_ ,” Blaine teases, smile broad and practically tugging at his cheeks as he arches away from the bed, his weight propped up on his elbows, sheets rucking under his weight. “The cool and collected Kurt Hummel buckling under the weight of Tina’s relentless barrage of personal questions. I feel like she might even give Rachel a run for her money.”

Snorting, Kurt kicks off his slippers and bounces on the mattress, rolling until he’s lined up from head to toe with Blaine, bumping their shoulders together. “Beasts of a different nature,” Kurt points out with a knowing wag of his finger. “I generally like to use behavior while intoxicated as a litmus test for personalities, and Tina? Happy, happy drunk. Very enthusiastic and genuinely pleased for everyone. Rachel? Clingy drunk. Seeks attention and warmth. Both of them are great friends of mine, but for the time being, I suspect a bit more vicarious living on Rachel’s end.”

“Are we at that point already? Enviable chemistry and witty banter?” Leaning in, Blaine beams before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Kurt’s cheek, the skin smooth under his lips.

Kurt hums in agreement, turning just enough to meet Blaine’s kiss squarely, both of his lips wrapping around Blaine’s lower as his tongue slips out to sweetly trace the line of Blaine’s mouth. But before the haze of contentment blankets the both of them completely, Blaine shakes his head — not having taken notes during his unabashed eavesdropping, he needs to ask before the details start fading, even if the warmth of Kurt’s skin tries to ease him away.

“Okay, okay. As much as I  _love_  kissing you, we’ve got more serious matters to talk about in the… how long do we have until Mike gets back from dropping Tina off?”

“If we’re lucky, an hour? At least thirty minutes,” replies Kurt, lazily dropping his cheek back onto his forearm, stretched out in a manner not unlike a cat. It’s enough that Blaine reaches out to trace his fingers down the line of Kurt’s spine, tracing lightly enough to tickle. “Beth’s working for another client right now, so they’re probably taking the subway.”

“The subway. And you really think they’ll be lucky enough to get back in half an hour?” Blaine arches a brow, lips quirked in amusement.

“Well, they got back from their  _three-day_  vacation after two, so you never know.”

“Point taken.”

Pushing himself off the bed with his back arching in a neat curve, Kurt matches Blaine’s expression, a brow carefully raised. “So, serious matters? Sounds ominous.”

“If they were ominous, I would have called them ominous matters,” Blaine points out, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the slight hollow of Kurt’s cheek, a bit more tense than usual for the nervous smile he wears. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that look. You just spent about twice the amount of time talking about the physical part of this relationship with Mike and Tina as you have with me,” he teases.

The effect is instantaneous, Kurt’s cheeks deepening visibly and his shoulders pulling up towards his jawline, lower lip jutting out. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old to be receiving the talk?”

“No,” says Blaine with a frank look. “I’m pretty sure that there isn’t such a thing as being too old for the talk, it’s more a matter of having ever had the talk at all. Sometimes, frankly, I’m not really sure whether or not to believe that you have.” Immediately, Kurt parts his lips in protest; Blaine raises a hand to settle him down. “Which, again, is nothing to be ashamed of. If that’s true.”

Kurt falls silent, shifting onto his stomach and curling an arm around the back of his neck. As far as Blaine can tell, Kurt’s probably feeling vulnerable, instinct guiding him to protect the parts of his body most liable to be injured — it’s a habit that Blaine knows well, however long ago that was. He tries to take it as a good sign, both as a hint that Blaine needs to tread carefully,  _respectfully_ , and proof that however brave Kurt might be on the whole, that some part of him feels vulnerable in this relationship. Some part of him cares deeply enough to.

It’s reassuring, in its way, because Blaine knows that he’s already in too deep.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Blaine adds quickly, carefully reaching out to brush his hand over Kurt’s shoulder. “Ultimately, I just want you to feel comfortable… so that  _I_  can feel comfortable as well. And if you’d rather table the discussion for later, that’s fine, but I may have to place a moratium on kissing in the meantime before we accidentally burn ourselves.”

Kurt glowers and Blaine laughs, beaming from cheek to cheek. Only when Blaine’s smile softens does Kurt take a quiet breath, opening himself up to Blaine by turning onto his side. The shift in body language is nothing short of encouraging to Blaine, who brushes his palm down the length of Kurt’s arm.

“I know that you’re right,” Kurt clarifies first, raising a hand to stall Blaine’s progress and lacing their fingers together. “I know that open communication about our… desired pace and our overall personal comfort is absolutely necessary. And you’re not wrong about my relative level of knowledge on this topic.” Rolling his eyes, Kurt shakes his head quickly, offers Blaine’s hand a little squeeze. “I am  _woefully_  uninformed compared to most of my peers. Sex ed in public schools isn’t always the best, and I wasn’t exactly looking for the graphic details, and there was just some part of me that absolutely  _refused_  to get over the idea of using a banana to take the place of…”

“A penis,” Blaine interjects, tone teasing as he stifled a laugh.

“Yes, that,” says Kurt, red flooding his ears.

“So… does that mean that you’ve never watched porn?” asks Blaine, brow furrowed in fascination.

“I lasted about ten minutes into a porno once,” mutters Kurt, staring determinedly at his sheets before chancing a slight look in Blaine’s direction, sighing at once. “Look, it’s just not realistic! And, and it’s not romantic, it’s all physical gratification without any of the sincerity behind it. Unless, of course, said recorded sex happens to be between a pair of exhibitionists, but then I just think about how that means I’m part of their sexual gratification and that’s almost  _worse_ . Because I want to be wined and dined first, and I want to reach that point where I can just hold hands with the guy I like, I want to savor however long a brush of one’s fingertips can still be sexy.”

Watching the way Kurt’s eyes change as he speaks, growing increasingly impassioned about the defense of  _romance_ , of all things, might be just about the most beautiful thing Blaine’s ever seen. Which isn’t to say that Blaine isn’t a hopeless romantic at heart himself — he likes to think that he’s done a fair job of trying to woo Kurt so far, more than happy to put together elaborate schemes and watch Kurt work his way through every one — but there’s a certain realism that Blaine’s also chosen to live by, different than the one Kurt showcased in Wes’ apartment.

Blaine wants to believe in the promise of change. Kurt wants to believe in the promise of love.

Together, that feels pretty powerful.

Thoughtfully, Blaine brushes the pad of his thumb over the side of Kurt’s palm, keeping the touch light and steady. “I guess I can understand that,” he admits. “I think there’s something to be said for physical gratification on its own, though. Maybe it’s not for everyone, and personally, I’d much prefer having the whole package. But I have plenty of friends who seem perfectly happy to be actively sexual people without necessarily being in relationships.”

Nodding, Kurt returns a small smile. “Which is a completely valid life choice, and I hope they play it safe. It’s just… not for me. And hasn’t been for me.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Blaine grins.

For a moment, the both of them fall into silence. The companionable sort, Blaine thinks, leaning in until he’s able to touch the tip of his nose to Kurt’s, marveling at the straight line of the bridge, and how it tapers to a fine point. There’s a part of him that wants, even when they’re like this, the world quiet around them, blanketing with a security that neither of them seems willing to disturb. He wants to hold fast to the moment for the both of them, to wrap his arms around Kurt’s shoulders, closing the distance for however long it takes them to fall asleep, maintaining it until they wake. Kurt’s eyes are flecked with any number of colors, brought out in varying hues by the light. Blaine wonders how morning looks on him, pale pinks and orange brushing over fair skin.

It takes a while until he’s able to shake himself out of such lingering thoughts.

“Seriously,” he murmurs, soft as he tugs Kurt’s hand to his lips, brushing against the knuckles with a kiss. “Should we be worried? I’m willing to go to  _pretty_  lengthy measures to make sure you’re fully informed. I bet the power of the Internet would be able to reveal your dad without too much trouble, if it turns out that I need to recruit him for this intervention.”

Kurt levels a glare, and Blaine can swear that there’s laughter buried behind the expression. “Or not,” Blaine laughs, rolling more fully onto his back and tugging Kurt’s hand with him, resting both of them on his stomach. “Wow, if looks could kill.”

“I’m not  _completely_  clueless, okay?” says Kurt, forcing Blaine to stifle the thought that Kurt sounds like he’s all of thirteen years old with that plaintive tone. An adorable and intensely handsome thirteen-year-old, but thirteen nonetheless. Kurt stares him down until Blaine’s cheek is pressed to the bed again, blue-green eyes meeting hazel. “Having been a college student, and one in musical theater besides, I have had plenty of chances to hear other people share every last detail of their weekend conquests and had some of them try to shape me up for the market, as it were.”

“So why not put yourself out there?”

Pulling his hand slightly back, Kurt brings his fingertips to Blaine’s wrist, tracing along the veins which run to Blaine’s knuckles. “I didn’t think it was worth putting my potential career in jeopardy just to date around. Unless I was sure of it being a great romance. You’re still kinda crimping my style, you know,” remarks Kurt, tongue in cheek as he offers a crooked grin.

“Can’t say I feel too guilty about that.” Feeling the words bloom over warm in his chest, Blaine reaches out with his free hand, skating up to Kurt’s shoulder and then down to his side, nudging until Kurt finally gives way and shifts on top of Blaine, knees to either side of his hips. Blaine thinks that he might like this perspective most, with Kurt taking up all of his sight, holding up his sky. Carefully, he brushes his hand up Kurt’s side, then wraps his palm around the nape of Kurt’s neck, fingertips lingering by his hair. And even though they’re so close, enough that Blaine might just push himself off the mattress to press his lips to Kurt’s once more, he can’t help but marvel at how much he has yet to discover. His hand shifts down along the lines of the shirt, coming to a rest by Kurt’s heart, which beats steadily in his chest.

Does Kurt feel the same ache that Blaine does?

“So how did you know that this was going to break the pattern?”

Huffing a laugh, Kurt rolls his eyes, leaning down until their noses bump clumsily together once more. “Did you already forget? I’ve been heads over heels for you—”

“—since before I knew your name,” breathes Blaine, grin widening as his palm slides to a rest by Kurt’s cheek, warm to the touch.

“Aha,” murmurs Kurt. “You weren’t too far gone to remember.”

Shaking his head, Blaine swallows thickly. “Never.”

Blaine’s breath catches, because he feels them. Three traitorous, exposing words fighting for purchase in his chest, beating against his ribcage with every passing second. But it’s so soon, he thinks, so soon and so early, and Blaine finds himself struck with the sudden thought that for all his success, he falls short of this man in every way. Holding out for epic love, determinedly fighting for a dream — Blaine’s spent so long fighting for approval that there are times when he feels like he still hasn’t fully found himself, and never has that been made more obvious than in the stark contrast of his life to Kurt’s.

A great romance. He needs to give that to Kurt. More than a song in the park, more than covert kisses in a quiet bedroom. Something greater than that.

He blinks suddenly as Kurt floods his vision, a kiss soft and cloying as it presses against his lips. On a breath, Kurt slips his tongue to meet Blaine’s, the gesture a shaky one, but no less strongly felt.

Is this the moment?

“I… I think…”


	17. Act XVII: Rachel

Rachel Berry is nothing if not a team player. True, there have been a few occasions in the past where she suffered from having a more narrow mindset than most, bolstered by constant reminders from her fathers that the only way to seize the day was to do so with her own two hands. Buoyed with praise at home from a young age, the frustrating inability on the part of Rachel’s peers to see and understand her sparkle became only a reason for her to strive more throughout high school, and breaking out of the small neck of Lima, Ohio seemed in all ways necessary in order to reach her full potential. She won’t deny that this ambition possibly grated on those in the background, the supporting singers from whom she may have borrowed some lift while in pursuit of her dreams. But at no point in the long and already tumultuous history of Rachel Berry has she ever genuinely turned away a friend or teammate in need. Why, even in the last few days preceding her NYADA audition, she broke her carefully maintained silence to make sure that she could help Kurt out with his — after all, while she knew that she could tackle New York all on her own, it wouldn’t have been half the fun without taking a part of her circle with her. Granted, Kurt didn’t take her advice fully to heart, but the point still remains — even with her future on the line, Rachel is always more than willing to stop and pause her life in order to help a friend.

Definitely.

And it’s the sharp self-awareness regarding her open and giving nature that has Rachel giving back yet more today when her phone alerts her of a text only hours before her audition time for _Matilda_ . (She thinks that she’s practically perfect for the role of Miss Honey, but casting and Rachel obviously haven’t always seen eye to eye.)

**Blaine (10:21)**   
Hey Rachel- it’s Blaine- think you can spare an hour? I think I screwed up

Of course, being nice and being utterly selfless are two different things. Rachel isn’t particularly of the opinion that complete selflessness is a good thing — don’t they always say that one has to look after oneself before looking after others? Glancing carefully at the clock in the small, busy little pie and coffee shop she likes to frequent before big auditions, Rachel considers her options. With only three hours to her name, she shouldn’t. She should be protecting her voice with every fiber of her being and downing hot water and lemon to soothe her throat. Dipping madeleine cookies in tea, if she’s feeling hungry. Anything but losing the next couple of hours to the spiraling discussion of Kurt Hummel’s love life.

And yet, she unlocks her phone, lips pursed in a cautious smile as she starts tapping out a reply.

**Rachel ♥ (10:44)**   
You get exactly 1 hr   
Starting now!!   
Little Pie Company on 43rd

The thing is, Kurt’s always the exception. Going into high school, Rachel had resigned herself to believing that she was the only one of her ilk, the only person who cared not only for music, but also the shining lights of the theater, who cared about the tried and aged romanticism of  _West Side Story_ , the busily streaming New York crowds, or the safety and purity of Tiffany’s that Holly Golightly herself had quickly discovered in the big city. Solitude so often wormed under Rachel’s skin that somewhere along the line, she became convinced that there was something wrong with her, that perhaps conforming wasn’t such a high price to pay if it could lead to acceptance. And that was when her own understanding of self began to slip, and when the wrong compromises were made.

Kurt helped to turn that around.

It was only from a distance that they were able to discover how similar they were, not only in tastes but in ambition, and in the way the world seemed to part for them into two halves, us and them, the line one they had to take it upon themselves to blur. Never before had Rachel met someone who accepted her so wholly, and who came to stand on behalf of those who didn’t have their own voice, willing to brave his greatest fears so that others wouldn’t  _have_  to. Around him, Rachel always felt encouraged to be a better person, to stop barreling ahead constantly and instead, think of the team. Think of the friendships. Think of the fact that no single person is as strong as the agreeing voices of a collective, and that there are sometimes more important things in life than the shine of a spotlight.

If that isn’t someone Rachel will set aside a few minutes to help, then she may as well be living in a bubble.

They’ve grown up together.

For all that Blaine Anderson seems to be the dreamboat hottie of Kurt’s fantasies, it doesn’t stop Rachel from leveling a concerned and hesitantly neutral look his way when he sweeps through the entrance, mustard yellow scarf wrapped high over his lips. Because if there’s one thing beyond Broadway that she shares most with Kurt, it’s a tendency towards quickly escalating and sometimes ill-advised crushes.

Clearing her throat, Rachel nods to the seat across from her at the table and watches as Blaine seats himself down, neatly crossing his legs at the knee and letting both hands rest politely in his lap.

“I should give you a fair warning, if you’ve done anything to upset Kurt, I will make sure you regret it,” Rachel announces, trying her best to assume an intimidating air. It helps that Blaine isn’t the giant that so many other boys in New Directions were; Rachel’s pretty sure that he doesn’t have more than a few inches on her. “ _But_ , if you’ve done something to upset Kurt  _and_ decide not to be honest about it, it’ll be worse. Much worse.”

To Blaine’s credit, he doesn’t immediately dismiss the idea that a five-feet-tall package of Sondheim and Streisand can serve out a cold dish of revenge. His shoulders slump slightly and, even if Rachel suspects that part of it is to keep prying eyes from lingering too long, the furrow of his brows and slight downturn of his lips seem far too genuine to be an act. Quickly glancing down to her own lap, Rachel sweeps aside the lock on her phone, quickly checking for any texts from Kurt. None. So… it can’t be  _that_  bad, can it?

“No, no,” Blaine shakes his head, eyes briefly falling to a close as he adds a wave of his hand. “I don’t think this is anything like that.”

“Well then, what’s the emergency?” Rachel presses, laying her arms flat on the table to lean forward for a closer look at him. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tonight?”

“I-I’m sorry,” stammers Blaine, glancing around the shop and at once looking away from a few pairs of curious eyes. “Is this really that terrible of a time? I admit that I kind of wanted the best friend’s opinion as soon as possible, but if this is making you nervous before your audition, I can go. I still remember what it’s like trying to battle one’s nerves before a big audition.”

Evasion, plain and simple, Rachel thinks. Pausing long enough to take another lingering sip of her tea, Rachel looks up with a thinly pressed smile and shakes her head. “Uh-uh, you are  _not_ going to back out of his now, Mister Warbler. I have cleared an hour of my schedule for you and my curiosity could just about light up the night sky, so you’d be doing both of us — and Kurt, probably — a favor by just letting me know what’s going on. And let me be the judge of how much harm you’ve done.”

“I couldn’t get the three words out.”

Rachel blinks, caught in that second still where her features are schooled in something of a frown, fingers resolutely wrapped around her mug of hot water and gripping it for all she’s worth.

“What?”

Rolling his eyes, Blaine shakes his head minutely and leans forward, resting his chin heavily in the palm of his head and sighing. “I couldn’t get the three words out. We were at his place, and we’d been — well, we’d been kissing, and talking a little bit about getting physical and how much knowledge either of us had about intimacy. It was a  _really_  fantastic talk and I’m not sure I’ve ever spoken so frankly with another person, and I just had this moment,” Blaine explains, growing increasingly worked up as he waves his hands in explanation, occasionally pressing them to his lips and dragging down. Rachel finds herself enraptured by some quality in his words, earnest and direct as they are. “This moment where it was like I was thinking, oh, there he is… I’ve been looking for him forever.”

A squeak slips from Rachel’s lips, and Blaine startles, pulling back inquisitively.

“Sorry,” Rachel apologizes, a hand clutching at the fabric of her shirt, fingers by her collarbone. “It’s just that you definitely wasted a perfect confession on me. Instead of using it on Kurt, like you should have. Since he’s… you know. Kind of your boyfriend.”

With a groan, Blaine hangs his head, fingers weaving and wrapping around the back of his neck. “ _See?_  I told you, I screwed up. Why couldn’t I have had you feeding me advice yesterday?”

Lips parting for a second, Rachel presses them closed again in thought, tugging at her lower lip with her teeth before she shakes her head and reaches out to tug Blaine’s hands down, holding them in her own. “Well, for one, if the two of you were sharing that intimate of a scene, I’m  _pretty_  sure that my voice would have been the last thing that you wanted to hear,” she points out, earning another slight groan from Blaine that she does her best to counter with a pat on his hand. “But you know what? This? Has done no lasting damage. Totally reversible with some finagling, and now that you have Kurt’s best  _friend_  on your side, it’ll turn out perfectly.  _Trust_  me.”

“Why is it that those two words have me doubting this plan already?” Blaine asks, voice quiet and lips turned in a faintly amused smile, almost sheepish as he raises a brow in Rachel’s direction. It’s almost  _maddeningly_  adorable, and Rachel can’t help the slight sigh that drops from her lips. Even married to Finn as she is, she has to admit — Blaine’s a  _catch_ .

It’s almost enough to have her patting herself on the back for how smoothly she introduced him to Kurt’s life.

“Seriously though,” Blaine adds, the smile fading slightly from his lips as he pulls them briefly between his teeth, raising his hand to bump his knuckles underneath the shadow of his nose. “I held back because I wondered if it wasn’t… you know, too early in the relationship. I don’t know, the way I always pictured it, there would be just this  _point_  where saying the three words would seem as easy as breathing, and I’d do it. Instead, yesterday felt like I was constantly building it up further and further in my head. It made the whole thing kind of intimidating.”

Shaking her head through his last sentence, Rachel jumps at the opportunity to seamlessly turn the conversation around, tilting her head with an adoring look. “Oh, sweetie, don’t you know? Kurt’s  _all_  for epic romance. He’s the type of guy who yearns for love at first sight and for first love being  _true_  love. And time may make all things deeper still, but that doesn’t mean that the first fall can’t be  _hard_  and meaningful to him. I know, because he and I share a  _lot_  of views on love… although we can also be very quick to criticize each other’s execution.”

With a dubious look, Blaine’s gaze drops for a second — and it doesn’t take much of a stretch for Rachel to guess that he’s glancing at her wedding ring, which  _is_  on her finger today, securely so — and he scratches at his jaw. “If you’re sure,” he murmurs, sounding anything but.

Glancing up at the ceiling for inspiration, Rachel bites down on her lip again. “Think about it this way,” she declares, shifting her weight in her seat and tugging herself further forward, nudging both of their hands until their fingers are entwined. “There is absolutely nothing that says what you’re feeling right now isn’t love. That’s something that  _you_  decide for yourself, and with the way Kurt talks about you, I can  _bet_  that he’d be happy to receive that whenever you’re ready. More time is just… going to make the feelings deeper. Hopefully. So why don’t you just  _go_  for it, make a gesture! And then make sure to text me right after, because I’m pretty sure Kurt’s gotten tired of my constant inquiries.”

“And the thing is,” Blaine says, raising his free hand and dropping it lightly on top of Rachel’s, “I wouldn’t have hesitated for even a second to do that in high school. I  _loved_  making a scene and generally didn’t care who I disturbed in the process. I mean, you don’t perform at theme parks unless you have really thick skin when it comes to embarrassment. But… I feel like being an adult should be slightly  _different_ . I really, really don’t want to screw things up with Kurt, and for all that I  _sing_  about romance, I don’t think I’m entirely sure what I’m doing. Every single move of mine has practically been plucked out of some rom com.”

Smile widening, Rachel tosses her hair over her shoulder, squeezing Blaine’s hand once before disentangling her own, leaning heavily back in her chair. “And hasn’t that gotten you this far?”

She takes his silence as affirmation.

Curiously, she blows at the steam that furls on the surface of her water, feeling it brush against the tip of her nose, a comforting warmth. “So… if that puts your fears as much to rest as we can get them without me hijacking your courtship and wooing Kurt myself, do you mind a little best friend grilling?” Rachel asks. “After all, we’re talking about the L-word already, and that sounds pretty serious to me.”

Tapping his fingers helplessly against his lips, Blaine shrugs. “Sure, go right ahead.”

“This isn’t… your first relationship, right?”

Spotting a wince from Blaine, Rachel’s brows lift towards her hairline. “Wait,” she says, frowning. “ _Seriously?_  You’ve been charming large audiences since high school; are you really telling me that you haven’t… with anyone?”

“Well, I — I mean,” stammers Blaine, eyes briefly skirting towards the ceiling. “I’m very comfortable with my body.  _And_  my sexuality. And before I was comfortable with the latter, I knew the importance of at least getting my feet wet, so I’ve even dated a couple of girls. But ever since I graduated, I guess I’ve been just so focused on my career — even back in high school, it was the Warblers first, dating second, and there wasn’t much of an intersection between the two. I thought love would wait.”

“So you weren’t looking,” Rachel concludes, sipping cautiously at her mug. “Makes sense. That’s what I thought I would do, too. It was actually Kurt who made me realize how  _much_  I needed Broadway, even if Broadway didn’t necessarily need or want me at first. But love tripped me up  _so_  many times. It complicates everything, and it clouds your judgment, changes the way you think — but I can’t even say that I regret anything that’s happened.” She runs her thumb underneath her fourth finger, tracing along the smooth, warm surface of the band.

After a pause, Blaine shifts his weight on the chair, drawing Rachel’s gaze up. “Kurt may have mentioned some things,” he says, tone almost apologetic.

“He does that.” With a nod, Rachel wrinkles her nose, letting out a slight laugh. “Look, let’s not talk too much about my situation. I’ve got enough with Kurt  _constantly_  on my back —  _and_ Finn’s, actually — trying to ease us in the direction of a better counselor. But I think what I’ve learned best over high school and college is that no relationship is without its hurdles. Having a lot of challenges doesn’t mean that there’s less love, it just means that… life gets in the way. Very few people are born to fit together perfectly, Blaine. Just know that right now. There will be some habits of Kurt’s that totally grate on your nerves, and the other way around.”

Blaine grins, gaze dropping down to his hands, thumbs twiddling.

“The good thing is that Kurt’s used to handling so much. He doesn’t  _buckle_ . I’ve never seen him choke at, at  _anything_  he puts his mind to,” Rachel gushes, rolling her eyes in fondness. Suddenly, she wishes Kurt were here to speak for himself, or at least around to see how much Blaine Anderson already seems to be willing and able to sit through just to better understand his boyfriend. “What he  _isn’t_  as used to is having someone constantly by his side to support him. I think you’ll change things for him, Blaine. I think you already  _have_ .”

She licks her lips, pleased to see a small flush work its way to Blaine’s lips. Rachel Berry may be an only child, but right now, in imparting all the wisdom she’s gained over the years about love and heartache, she feels a  _little_  protective of him, like she imagines an older sister would. It’s a nice feeling. Even though she’s pretty sure that she’s not supposed to take to her best friend’s new boyfriend  _quite_  so quickly.

Another second passes, and Blaine shakes his head minutely, as though pleased to have found the perfect words. “Well, he’s certainly already changed everything for me.”

And Rachel can’t help it. She snorts, a soft huff of air that dissolves into delighted laughter, the kind that grasps at air knowing that there won’t be enough after a few more seconds, shaking her head to shake off the pleasing thrum of her heart.

“It’s really no wonder Kurt’s crazy about you.”

No one would be able to tell that the man sitting across from Rachel was lost in a downward spiral of panic only minutes ago, not with the smile that beams across Blaine’s face, slightly too large for a shoot and  _perfect_  because of it.

“Okay,” Rachel announces, setting her mug down with an air of finality. “And now you need to go before my audition for Miss Honey is  _ruined_  by constant thoughts of budding love.”

“I thought you offered me an hour,” Blaine teases, already reaching back for his scarf.

Laughing, Rachel shakes her head, chin lifting as Blaine rises to his feet. “I must have forgotten to mention that all appointments are subject to change at the hostess’ whim.”

“This is going to affect your Yelp score.” Grinning mischievously, Blaine slips his fingers under Rachel’s hand and quickly lifts it to his lips for a brief press, and for all that Rachel  _knows_  he’s Kurt’s boyfriend, she can’t help the pleased smattering of pink that spreads across her face. “Until next time?”

“Oh,  _get_  out of here,” she says, tugging her hand quickly out of his grip and smacking his upper arm before he steps out of reach. “You should be so lucky.”

“ _Thank_  you, Rachel,” he calls in return from halfway out the door.

Only once the door’s fully closed does Rachel tug her cell phone out again, licking her lips as she quickly taps across the screen.

**Rachel ♥ (11:27)**   
U r covering my next dentist bill   
That bf of yours is UNBEARABLY sweet!!

The reply is almost instantaneous.

**Kurt (11:29)**   
I’m glad you approve.


	18. Act XVIII: Kurt

The most troublesome aspect of having a wandering imagination is the crash to reality. From a young age, Kurt Hummel spent many of his afternoons caught in fevered, fantastical dreams, each of them bearing the unmistakable theme of escapism. At two, he reached up towards his father with small hands, clutching the fabric of his shirt and glancing down at the world from atop broad shoulders with a budding surety that someday, he would learn the magic to heft himself to such heights. At five, Kurt imagined himself fashioning a line of shoes that would give the wearers the capability of flying, sweeping around a room with more finesse than the ballet dancers who leapt across his television screen. At eight, he imagined releasing a line at New York Fashion Week, each model released with flames licking behind their shoes. At twelve, he decided that he needed to take the stage, entranced by the ability to shed skin for skin, never forced to remain in one that felt as decidedly uncomfortable as his own. To have the ability to change his dreams at the drop of a dime was a powerful skill, almost innate, and Kurt once reveled in it without fail.

But to change his dreams so often was also indicative of a greater problem — Kurt always found himself releasing one in favor of another. Constantly, he came across denial, whether it arrived in the form of gentle reassuring words or the more physical barring of arms, until the only dreams left were practical ones. Dreams where the only variable called to question was Kurt’s own dedication and tenacity.

Romance was always the most difficult of dreams to maintain. A man can stand on his own under the spotlight, but in a relationship, no person is an island. People become puzzle pieces instead, wearing down their edges in an attempt to lessen the jar, and without compromise, the process of fitting a better half can easily become suffocating, an unwilling reinvention of self. In spite of varying attempts made to placate him over the years, reminders that Kurt was young, that Kurt was still finding himself, that Kurt had only been in New York for a few years and there was  _bound_  to be someone in that vast city for him, there have been times when Kurt’s thought of himself as having an edge perforated, jagged, and ultimately incompatible with almost every person he comes across.

To have now found that missing puzzle piece is terrifying. Being with Blaine is as easy as breathing — but with the constant movement in his past, Kurt can’t help but wonder.

Sometimes, being special means constantly preparing oneself for solitude.

Kurt’s terrified of going back.

* * *

  
The office that Kurt shares with Mike is lit in a harsh blue as Kurt sits in front of the computer, scribbled notes and legal pad abandoned at his side as he scrolls through his browser, tab after tab of romance and sex columns opened and scrolling under an intent gaze. With one hand on the mouse, Kurt bites at the tip of the thumb of the other, legs curled up on the seat and toes hanging over the edge. This part, he thinks to himself, has never been easy. It’s never difficult to slide into the personas that he wears on stage, to hold his shoulders back and high to Shakespeare or bear the mask of the invisible man in  _Chicago_ . He can gaze for endless hours at a libretto splayed on his screen, but the difficulty comes in closing those windows, turning off the monitor, and finding only his reflection in the dark gray.   
  
He likes who he is, but it hasn’t always stopped him from seeking the approval of others.   
  
A soft knock suddenly sounds on the door and Kurt finds himself jumping at once, eyes wide as he presses a quick shortcut on the keyboard to close down the browser window, the gesture useless in light of the guilty expression that he turns towards Mike. He’s given the grace of a few seconds before Mike turns on the main lamp in the room, both men squinting slightly at the too-bright glare until it fades, but what remains is the grin on Mike’s face as he leans against the doorframe.   
  
“Sorry,” Kurt says with a wince. “Did I wake you?”   
  
“Yes and no,” Mike says, shrugging and pushing his weight away from the door, walking over with an ease that Kurt still envies up to this day. “I don’t have Clark Kent’s hearing, so the typing and browsing wasn’t a problem, but this is the first night in quite some time that both of us have turned in before midnight, so I guess I got to thinking. Figured it might be good to catch up with the roomie.”   
  
Kurt smiles, toes pushing against the ground to turn the chair and face Mike more fully. “I like the sound of that.”   
  


* * *

  
Hands protectively cupping a mug of hot tea, Kurt leans forward, eyes fluttering shut at the fresh scent of matcha that tickles under his nose, practically able to sense the soft, smooth bitterness on his tongue before taking a single sip. He’s curled himself up in a corner of the couch, cushions caught between his knees, while Mike sprawls over the recliner, legs kicked up over one of the generous armrests.   
  
“So,” Mike starts, tilting his head. “I’ve never really done this before, probably because most of the guys I know aren’t quite as cool about discussing their relationships, but we’ve always been open with each other, and I thought maybe you could really catch me up on Blaine. You know, let me know where you are… if you need any advice from a bro.”   
  
Kurt arches a brow. “How generous of you,” he remarks with a smile, blowing the billowing steam off of the surface of his tea. “I would be remiss not to take up such an offer, considering how well things have gone between you and Tina. The both of you are certainly the shining example of a successful couple out of all of us who were in New Directions.”   
  
“That’s… really not setting much of a bar,” Mike remarks, wrinkling his nose.   
  
“Truer words.”   
  
Both pause to take a sip from their mugs, and it’s Mike who looks up again first, Kurt noticing the gaze from the edge of his field of vision as he tilts his mug minutely from side to side, watching a bit of coarse matcha powder swirl at the bottom.   
  
“I don’t know if advice is really what I need,” he says at last, brow knit. “We all know that I can be pretty uncompromising when it comes to my personality, and dating Blaine hasn’t changed that — I don’t feel like I’m one of those people who practically morphs into a shared identity when dating.”   
  
“Thank god for that,” Mike says, raising his brows before taking another sip.   
  
Shifting against the soft, deep red flannel material of his pajamas, worn pretty exclusively for comfort and warmth rather than style, Kurt presses his cheek against the back cushion of the sofa, seemingly melting into the furniture. “Indeed,” he nods. “I’m glad that I still feel like myself when I’m with Blaine. It’s about as comfortable as it gets, honestly.”   
  
“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”   
  
“Isn’t there always?” Kurt remarks, nose scrunching for a second before the expression relaxes. “I mean, I pretty much shared the  _story_  with you and Tina already. But the part that’s harder to put into words is how daunting it is to learn how to shape at least part of yourself around that other person. On the one hand, I am  _crazy_  about Blaine, and it feels like he can practically do no wrong, but on the other, I don’t know how to put anything that happens between us into context.”   
  
Frowning, Mike slides his legs back down from the armrest, instead leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the base of his mug flat against his palm. “Well, who says you need context? Who says you need to compare? I hate to sound like an advice columnist, especially since I noticed that you were collecting those articles by the dozen just now—” Kurt flushes. “—but I think there’s a reason why people harp on the idea that everyone’s situation is unique,” he says.   
  
“No, I know,” replies Kurt with a slight roll of his eyes. “On a practical level, I understand all of that. But when you’ve spent years of your life learning all these supposed life lessons from the trials and tribulations of a circle of best friends, it’s hard not to wonder how you’re supposed to apply any of that to your own life.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
“I don’t even know how to describe it, Mike. I am  _crazy_  about him, I really am. And while I fully realize that I can’t simply take him by the elbow and show him off to every person who passes by, I still feel like I’m constantly being assaulted with emotion from every side. I’m a blushing schoolboy,” Kurt declares, eyes widening with the realization and a faint pink spreading to the tips of his ears. “That’s what I am. It’s like puppy love.”   
  
Nose wrinkling, Mike leans back for a second, shaking his head as he places his mug on the coffee table with a soft tap. “I don’t know about that.”   
  
“What else would you call it? I’ve only been dating him for several weeks.”   
  
“So? Just because you’ve fallen fast and hard doesn’t mean that it’s some kind of underdeveloped or immature love. Sometimes love strikes fast,” Mike says, running his fingers briefly through his hair and kicking back once more, heels slipping over the side of the chair. “That doesn’t imply anything about the depth of it.”   
  
Skeptical, Kurt presses his index finger to his lower lip. “Okay, seriously, are you implying that you and Tina were deep and meaningful from the onset? Because I remember the rumor going around that it was your abs that lit up her life that summer.”   
  
With a cheeky grin, Mike presses the side of his fist briefly to his forehead. “Well, I can’t pretend that teenage hormones weren’t a factor, but something obviously clicked and hung on until now,” he says with a shrug. “If impulse was involved, I’d still say we’ve done pretty well for ourselves.”   
  
“I’d agree with that,” Kurt nods, considering.   
  
“Just… be honest with how you’re feeling, Kurt. That’s the only thing I can really say about your situation. You don’t have to understand everything right away about how you feel, but it’ll be a lot easier to navigate if you’re able to put it out there, both for Blaine and for yourself.” Reaching out for his mug, Mike takes a longer draw, making a face at the quickly cooling temperature. “Besides, it sounds like Anderson’s pretty good about respecting your boundaries.”   
  
With an even more furious blush, Kurt sinks further into the corner of the couch, tugging his knees up to his chest.   
  
Laughing, Mike shakes his head. “ _Relax_ , I’m not going to grill you with questions.”   
  
“No, that’s not — I didn’t mean to imply  _that_ ,” Kurt splutters, then sighing. “Look, as much as I love Rachel, after rooming with her, it became extremely clear to me that I needed someone more low-key the next time around. I wouldn’t have moved in with you if I thought you were the type to pry.”   
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”   
  
“But… I don’t know. What was it that made you realize it was time to take that step?” Watching Mike’s expression threaten with a laugh, Kurt sighs, tugging his mug closer to his chest with a mutter. “Okay, clearly this is the last time I turn to you for any sex advice.”   
  
“I’m not laughing at you, Kurt,” says Mike with a placating raise of his hand. “I just don’t really have an answer for you, buddy. For me and Tina, it started with a look. I mean, we talked it out, talked about the risks and the implications — it was a pretty adult conversation. But I think by that point, it was formality more than anything else. We already knew we were ready.”   
  
Kurt feels his stomach drop with a slightly nauseating swoop.   
  
“You’ll know,” adds Mike, but as Kurt raises his mug to take another sip, he finds himself still skeptical.   
  


* * *

  
Nothing changes over the next several days. It’s maddening, to be honest — each phone call ends with his toes hanging over the precipice of a cliff, the prospect of jumping exhilarating and terrifying all at once, emotions catching in his chest with no outlet. Kurt catalogues every stolen moment, the hours spent on Skype and the rare but treasured kiss managed during serendipitous gaps in their schedules.   
  
_I miss you,_  Kurt says, but feels a frustrating distance that seems to edge wider by the day, causing him to wonder how much of it might be breached with another three words, but if there’s one thing he holds steadfastly to, it’s the fact that he doesn’t want to share that first moment over a video call.   
  
(And that thought makes him think of how quickly the thrill of celebrity can wear off. This is only the beginning.)   
  
Occasionally, Kurt lets himself fantasize a little. There are a dozen vacations he’s mapped out in his mind already, the places he wants to visit if the pair of them carefully budget and ever find the time — trips to Paris, to Buenos Aires, to Osaka.   
  
“That sounds  _amazing_ ,” Blaine remarks every time with the same unbridled enthusiasm. “The next time we’re both free for a week — or, heck, maybe I can convince Wes to let me do a tour abroad.”   
  
Kurt never doubts Blaine’s sincerity, but he has less faith in time being so kind.   
  
That’s a little bit maddening, too.   
  


* * *

  
“Let’s go on a vacation,” Blaine decides one afternoon, grinning from ear to ear as he idly spears a leaf of romaine lettuce with his fork. “Just get away for a couple of days.”   
  
After a surprised pause, Kurt nods, barely managing to contain a huff of laughter. “Uh-huh. I’m impressed. Usually it takes me having to actually pitch a place before you declare yourself determined to get us there,” Kurt says, a cherry tomato slipping under the spears of his fork in the most aggravating way. He’d be more aggressive with the thing if he didn’t suspect a jet of tomato juice primed to punish him for the thought.   
  
“No, Kurt, I’m serious! I — come on, look at me — I have the next couple of days off from work, and I asked Beth in advance to see if she was doing any driving for you in that amount of time. The fact that she’s not tells me that you’ve got a lot more free time than you’re willing to admit to,” accuses Blaine, tone playful as he twirls his fork once in emphasis.   
  
Chewing thoughtfully on a slice of carrot, having given up on the tomato, Kurt tilts his head and chews slowly, fighting down the excitement already building in his chest at the thought. “Okay, okay. But where are we even able to go on such short notice? Tickets to Europe must be through the  _roof_ , and frankly, if we’re headed somewhere glamorous, I might need to spend half a day both mentally preparing and putting together a wardrobe suitable for the final destination,” he considers, stabbing more enthusiastically at a wedge of mandarin orange.   
  
“I was thinking somewhere a bit closer than that, actually.”   
  
Pursing his lips, Kurt arches a brow. “San Francisco…? Ooh, or Los Angeles, where at least you wouldn’t be the biggest fish in the pond. We could  _blend_ .”   
  
“Closer still.”   
  
Kurt stares.   
  
“What do you say to two nights in The Standard?”   
  
Gaping, Kurt holds silent for a few seconds before asking incredulously, “You booked us a room in the Meatpacking District? Seriously?”   
  
“Have you been, Kurt? Have you actually properly been shown around Chelsea?”   
  
“Well, no—”   
  
“Then it’s settled!” Blaine beams, gently placing his fork down on the plate and reaching out for Kurt’s free hand with both of his own, clasping it warmly. “I know it doesn’t sound like the most glamorous vacation ever, but Kurt, I  _promise_  you that I wouldn’t pick this place without reason. At least try to give it a chance? And if you don’t like it, I swear I’ll get us to Europe no matter what the cost the next time we both have a couple days off.”   
  
Reluctantly, the corner of Kurt’s lips lift a bit. “You know that saying that is only going to make it harder for Chelsea to win over my heart. I have incentive to hold out.”   
  
“Which makes it a good thing that I’m as confident about my choice as I am,” nods Blaine.   
  
Holding his gaze steady for several seconds, Kurt sighs and relents, charmed in spite of himself by Blaine’s confidence, skin still slightly abuzz at the idea of any getaway at all. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to stay close to the neighborhood? If we think the nationwide recognition is enough of a threat on your end, keeping to the state where both of us arguably found our claim to fame is going to be like vacationing in the lion’s den.”   
  
“Exactly why no one would ever expect us to do it,” reasons Blaine.   
  
“You might be on to something.”   
  


* * *

  
They start the day early, the sky above still brushed in deep lilacs and fuchsia as Kurt leans over to press a lingering kiss to Blaine’s temple. In spite of working on any number of schedules, there seems to be something about a morning with Kurt that has Blaine reluctant to leave the bed; he lets out a soft groan, almost a growl, before throwing a heavy arm over Kurt’s waist, holding him in place. But no matter how tempting the warmth is, even that which pools in Kurt’s abdomen, he forces himself to take a few slow, measured breaths — Blaine only stayed the night so they could set out early, there’s no reason to get worked up, but it’s so  _natural_  somehow, and Blaine’s lashes are thick, dark, distinguishable — before shaking Blaine’s shoulder and leaning over with a whisper.   
  
“If you don’t get up now, the traffic’s going to be a nightmare, and we’re going to lose a good quarter of our getaway time,” he points out, to which Blaine responds with a loader moan and a drop of his face directly into his pillow.   
  
Laughing, Kurt extricates himself from the bed, careful to check for any obvious indecency before quickly making his way to the bathroom. He hears a loud snore from Mike’s bedroom, almost  _too_  loud to be genuine, and smirks to himself before closing the bathroom door behind him. Before anything else, Kurt turns on the faucet, splashing his face with cold water and letting the shock trickle down his spine, waking him fully. Tilting his chin up to examine his jawline in the mirror, Kurt sighs and reaches for his shaving cream — while there’s not much visibly noticeable, going without shaving for a day leaves Kurt’s skin rougher than he’d like.   
  
And maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t mind looking as kissable as possible for their date, Kurt thinks, his face immediately flushing over. A knock sounds on the door, startling Kurt and resulting in a dab of cream hanging to the tip of his nose.   
  
“Bed’s cold without you,” Blaine complains, and Kurt’s soon rewarded by a warm weight against his back as Blaine’s arms wrap around his waist and his forehead drops to Kurt’s shoulder.   
  
“I’m shaving.”   
  
“Not mutually exclusive,” Blaine points out with a huff, raising his head until his chin hooks over Kurt’s shoulder. Squinting, he points a finger toward the mirror. “Is that… for warding off nose hairs, or?”   
  
“ _Blaine!_ ” Kurt laughs, bumping Blaine away with his hip and rubbing his nose clean before starting to shave along the center of his right cheek. “You scared me, okay? Go get dressed or something; we can’t both fit at the sink when I’m shaving.”   
  
“You sure about that?”   
  
“ _Go_ , otherwise we won’t be able to grab breakfast before we go.”   
  
Blaine grumbles something unintelligible as he slips out of the bathroom again, and Kurt’s razor remains poised in the air as he turns to watch him leave. It’s hard to keep the smile contained enough for a good shave — but if that’s a concession Kurt has to make, today he finds that he doesn’t mind.   
  


* * *

  
As it turns out, Chelsea is perfect.   
  
The pair of them leave their luggage in the front lobby of The Standard, having arrived too early to snag the room that Blaine reserved for the both of them — Kurt resists the temptation to ask whether or not Blaine booked the best room in the hotel, which seems like the kind of impulse he’d act on in the moment, but the expression of the woman at the registration desk assures him that there’s nothing to worry about. They leave the lobby holding hands, scarves wrapped high around their necks until Kurt can barely see Blaine’s lips at all, but he happily makes the sacrifice for the sake of anonymity, a weight lifted off his chest as he glances around furtively and finds that hardly a single person glances their way at all.   
  
Blaine squeezes his hand, a silent  _I told you so_  that Kurt responds to with a bump from his hip, one that sends Blaine towards the edge of the sidewalk with an exaggerated stumble.   
  
“You’re  _impossible_ ,” Kurt remarks, nose wrinkled in an attempt to suppress a laugh.   
  
“And you love it,” Blaine replies, the both of them stealing a moment in a secluded stairway at the end of the street, Blaine’s hands shifting until they rest on Kurt’s hips and push him back lightly against the wall, both scarves simultaneously tugged down to make way for a soft, searching kiss.   
  
They’ve shared hundreds of kisses already, some heated and others almost chaste, but there’s something different about this one, something beyond the touch and the heated air that lingers by their lips, and when they pull apart, Kurt’s gaze ends up dropping to Blaine’s lips. Kurt listens, straining, but only hears the rush of passing cars in the distance.   
  
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment, Kurt blushing furiously as a couple of girls pass, giggling to one another and carefully keeping their gazes averted, but Blaine’s hand rests as sure as ever against the small of his back as they climb up the rest of the way to the stretch of High Line Park. Brisk blue stretches overhead and waves crash at a distance; between the early hour and the covers still drawn over the food carts, the only interruptions come in the form of seagulls darting through the sky, wings stretched in a graceful glide.   
  
Eyes wide open, Kurt tries not to breathe, not to move, struck by this moment as it nestles in neatly between all the rest. The scene in front of them is far from what Kurt’s dreamed of all his life, too easily seduced by bright lights and towering buildings, and yet he feels strangely at home watching the distant horizon. He shivers, but not from the cold.   
  
Before Kurt can say a word, Blaine reaches out and melts against his back. Kurt blinks,  _finally_ , suddenly aware of how dry his eyes are as a result of the constant breeze.   
  
“I love you.”   
  
His lips part, and Kurt finally takes a breath.   
  
“…I love you, too.”


	19. Act XIX: Blaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all subscribers and loyal followers of this story! Your feedback, kudos, and comments are greatly appreciated. And an extra big thank you to [Teach](http://tchrgleek.tumblr.com), my beta for act eighteen and forward — you're amazing.

If someone told Blaine mere days ago that saying three words would be like opening the floodgates, he wouldn’t have believed them. Years of being a hopeless romantic and seeing very little in the way of results wore down on Blaine in a way that he likes to think of as giving him character, or at least helping him set realistic goals. He’s watched his peers from Dalton settle down into their lives, one by one, setting off for college and going into various jobs — lawyers, doctors, businessmen, mostly. But if there’s one thing that he’s never been able to predict, it’s which of them manage to settle down with someone they decide they’d like to live with for the rest of their lives.

He’s learned by observation that there isn’t a pattern. Nor a way to predict when paths diverge, which seems to happen more often than not. What he does know is that, after years of leaning against friends and finding safety in numbers, his first goal became to focus on himself, and build a foundation upon which maybe he could be loved.

Real life isn’t Hollywood.

But as he holds his arms tightly around Kurt, chin hooked over his shoulder and the cold tip of his nose pressed against a far warmer cheek, Blaine starts noticing again the things he’s only ever read in books, or sang about on stage. A flush spreading over the bridge of Kurt’s nose, a dimple arising at a laugh, and that sigh that he can’t quite read falling from Kurt’s lips. It feels different, and yet the same all at once, because there’s no giant revelation that came with the admission of love. Blaine’s known how he feels about Kurt this whole time; it’s the communication that eludes him, that’s so easy to stumble upon. Those three words are extraordinary.

Yet what Blaine can’t help but marvel about is how ordinary the moment is, warm bodies nestled together against the cold.

He’s drawn away suddenly from his thoughts by a shaky inhale of breath, Kurt’s laugh punctuating the air. “You’re holding me so tightly that I think I forgot to breathe,” jokes Kurt, the bridge of his nose wrinkled and a few lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. Blaine lifts himself up onto his toes, lips brushing briefly against the skin.

“My bad,” he grins, exhaling deeply as he drops an arm, but keeps the other carefully looped around Kurt’s hip, pivoting them both in the direction of their hotel. “Let’s just say that I’m... rather fond of your waist.”

“You know, Broadway is a _fantastic_ workout,” Kurt admits, glancing down at Blaine’s hand before covering it with his own, lacing their fingers and tugging.

Blaine frowns in confusion, then raises his brows in boyish contentment as Kurt slips both of their hands into his pocket, toasty and warm. Leaning forward, he brushes his nose against Kurt’s temple.

“Stop that,” complains Kurt, whacking him with a hand. “Your nose is chilly. Also possibly wet, ugh.”

“New York winters.” Blaine fumbles with his coat before drawing out a handkerchief, blowing lightly before carefully folding the square of fabric and tucking it back into the pocket.

“That’s attractive.”

“Hey, I could have done as most men do and wiped that on the back of my sleeve.”

“Yes, and then we would _definitely_ be through.”

Snorting, Blaine tilts his head down in an effort to rest it atop Kurt’s shoulder, but as they walk, he finds his head bumping with every step. With a wince, Blaine pulls himself straight again. “You know you love me,” he says, though the tone of his voice is soft as he glances over at Kurt, gaze following the curve of his lashes down to the wintry blue of his eyes. They suit the weather.

“I do now.”

* * *

Whatever vestiges of warmth remain in the air quickly slip away with the sun as it dips under the horizon, casting colors over the sky in brilliant purples and russet gold. Blaine tugs his phone out of his pocket — there are a million unopened texts waiting for him, but he can’t quite bring himself to care — and peeks through the map, searching for places to go in order to enjoy the city nightlife, but a rush of cars and the sharp tug of Kurt on his hand draws his attention up again. Far from trekking back out to the subway, Kurt’s leading them closer to the edge of town, water peeking through between the buildings as their hotel looms directly ahead.

His heart skips a beat.

“Are you tired?” asks Blaine, leaning forward to try and catch Kurt’s gaze. Maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but he swears that Kurt’s complexion is pinker, flushed over his cheekbones.

Pulling his lower lip briefly between his teeth, Kurt shakes his head minutely. “No,” he adds, almost as though to reassure himself.

Between the two of them, Blaine’s always been the one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but tonight, everything seems to read clear on Kurt’s expression. Determination isn’t quite the right word for it, nor resolve, but there’s a calm intensity in Kurt’s features that nearly sends a shiver down Blaine’s spine. They share a partition of the revolving doors as they head inside, Kurt in front and Blaine trailing behind, and he only just dares to smile as they duck to the side of the main lobby, the floor and walls around them covered in lacquered black tile.

“Hey,” he says, wincing when he barely hears his own voice. It isn’t like him to be nervous, but his heart still thrums in his chest, beating with the wings of a hummingbird.

Kurt’s fingers tap against the button of the elevator, and the light barely skims across the reflection of the tiles, enough that Blaine catches a glimpse of himself and Kurt standing half a step in front of him. It’s a theme, he thinks to himself, a chorus repeated. Closing his eyes, he feels the wind blowing strongly about them again, whipping across their faces, weaving through their hair, and he steps forward enough to skim his lips against the nape of Kurt’s neck.

Eyes opening in time to catch Kurt looking over his shoulder, Blaine allows himself a sheepish grin.

“Is this our thing? You coming at me from behind?”

There’s a touch of wickedness in Kurt’s eyes. “Maybe,” replies Blaine, feigning ignorance. “Do you have any objections? You should really air them now before the habit settles in, because those can be _hard_ to break.”

The elevator doors slide open, music filtering out as Kurt turns to face Blaine, his eyes darting towards the separator that stands between them at the lobby. Looking for prying eyes, maybe, Blaine thinks; he doesn’t bother mentioning that this part of town probably won’t look twice at their affection. It’s why he chose this part of the city.

(He wonders whether or not to mention the floor to ceiling windows of their room, the inner lighting making everything visible to the streets below. Could be adventurous. Could also put an early end to any attempt at romance.)

Glancing down, Blaine catches sight of a pale hand wrapping around his scarf and giving a slight tug, feet shuffling in tandem as they step into the elevator. The doors slide shut quickly behind them. Blaine wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist, enjoying the soft rush of air by his cheek as Kurt practically melts against him.

“Oh,” Kurt sighs, relaxing into a smile, one hand sliding over Blaine’s shoulder.

“Oh?”

“You just took my breath away.”

Groping back with a hand to press their floor number, Blaine quickly closes the distance between them, nipping at Kurt’s lower lip, at once shy but bold, seeking permission. Kurt parts them with a soft exhale, tremulous while his arms firmly wrap around Blaine’s back, splaying wide and frustratingly distant through layers of fabric.

As soon as they land on the proper floor, Kurt peels away from Blaine, darting ahead down the hallway and speeding up whenever Blaine stumbles closer; the movement aligns with the type of confidence Blaine’s only ever seen Kurt wear on the stage, bright and pleased and unique somehow in its quality, emotions worn bright over his chest and spilling over in colors. Kurt arrives at the door first, which is when Blaine manages to catch up, but he does so quietly, slipping his hands over Kurt’s shoulders and nestling his nose against thick strands of hair.

The door pushes in, sending their balance careening, Kurt’s laughter bright against Blaine’s skin as he pivots on his heels, ducking into the hotel room with his arms looped welcomingly over Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine finds himself terrified to speak, terrified to call too much attention to the moment, chest seizing with the wonder of how easily they slip into their roles; he’s loath to interrupt. In turn, Kurt runs a hand down the front of Blaine’s chest, deftly tugging his coat zipper down as the door clicks softly closed behind them, and a yank alerts Blaine to the curve of Kurt’s thumb into his belt loop.

Simple.

His peripheral vision is suddenly awash in bright red as they step back in tandem. Spots of bright light strikes Blaine’s vision from behind Kurt’s body, forcing him to squint as his hands fall to Kurt’s hips for the simple purpose of turning them in the right direction.

“Curtain’s open,” murmurs Blaine reluctantly, exhaling soft as Kurt’s lips brush up against the side of his neck.

“I don’t care.”

Laughing, Blaine runs his fingers affectionately through Kurt’s thick hair; the strands stand on end, askew. “Yes, you do. We’re not putting on a show,” he replies, brushing the backs of his fingers up along the straight line of Kurt’s jaw, eliciting a quiet gasp of breath. “And besides, you deserve a paying audience.”

Kurt snorts, ducking to the side and stifling a laugh. Blaine raises his brow, inquiring.

“Just wondering if I should be charging you for this,” Kurt answers, pulling away again to rush over to the window, eyes widening at the nightscape that stretches down below them, lights of all colors and in any number of patterns, some twinkling as they scatter over waves in the distance, others intense and constant as they line the street. “Oh, wow. Reminds me of why I came to New York.”

“Can’t get this sort of view from your corner of town, can you?”

“Not on my salary,” murmurs Kurt, drawing the curtains across the room before quickly slipping the buttons of his coat free, heavy fabric sliding off either shoulder before he lays it carefully over a chair. Blaine turns back to glance at his own jacket, crumpled on the ground.

“Leave it. I’ll iron it lightly in the morning.”

Before Blaine has time to protest, he finds Kurt standing inches away once more, fingertips tracing down the center line of his polo shirt, the contact just enough to catch his breath.

Entranced though he is by the look in Kurt’s eyes, dark in a way that he’s never seen them before, still Blaine slips his index finger underneath Kurt’s chin, lifting lightly. “Hey,” he says softly. “I reserved this room for us, but that doesn’t mean that we have to…”

“I know.”

Blaine’s lips fall slack as he’s suddenly jerked ahead another step, Kurt’s fingers digging under Blaine’s waistband. Carefully, Kurt lifts the fabric of Blaine’s shirt free, fingers toying underneath the hem and skirting across Blaine’s abdomen. “The thing is, Blaine,” he adds in an undertone, “I love you. I love you in that crazy… let you have the last bite of cheesecake kind of way.”

“ _Grey’s?_ ”

“Hush.” Kurt presses an index finger briefly to the bow of Blaine’s lips. “I like that you’re interrupting me; it means I’m probably not the only one nervous here about accidentally knocking heads or kneeing one another. But… here’s the thing. I love you. And it wasn’t a sudden thing. I gave up falling quickly in love years ago, I gave up _pop music_ years ago, and I consider the idea of happily ever after incredibly shortsighted. You sang _Teenage Dream_ to me, and it was thrilling, but I’m done with that.”

There’s a surety in Kurt’s voice that sends Blaine’s stomach flipping in turns.

“I fell in love with you, and I didn’t realize what that was until today. Like you taught me how to breathe again, not hold everything in my chest, and this, tonight’s just saying that with our hands instead of our words. There’s no first this or first that.” Kurt ducks his head, tilting it until the light in the room casts a soft glow over his skin, luminous and warm. And suddenly, without Blaine realizing, he finds his vision swimming in Kurt, the details blurring as they draw close, save for that clear press of Kurt’s full lips against his own. Kurt doesn’t draw back. He stays there, but Blaine can feel the smile still, lifting a hand to trace along the curve of it, lips to corner and cheek to dimple. Reiterating everything Kurt’s said already.

Blaine laces his fingers with Kurt’s, lifting a hand and holding it to Kurt’s chest, right over his heart.

“I love you so much.”

Some details escape him, slip away in passing. He doesn’t remember who pushes down the collar of Kurt’s shirt; Blaine recalls instead their hands, one over the other, and the purse of fabric as Kurt’s shoulder is exposed with a gentle brush. He doesn’t remember how many kisses there were, only that there were many, speckled over the length of Kurt’s body, mapping rather than marking. The straight line of a clavicle, the scatter of freckles barely visible over a pale complexion, the press of pad to pad before their fingers laced again, squeezing tight as they pushed back on the pillow.

Neither of them stays in the same place for long, still finding one another, laughing when limbs are trapped awkwardly and gasping when they slot just right. Blaine leans down for kisses, until suddenly he finds himself looking up, air punched out of his lungs and eyes slipping closed as Kurt wraps a hand around him, bold as they press nose to nose, as though Kurt’s reading the stutter of Blaine’s breath.

As the minutes pass, Blaine grows bolder; the side of his foot brushing up against prickly hair, or fingers kneading down the straight line of Kurt’s spine, lower and lower still, searching for that eventual gasp from Kurt’s lips as he ducks his nose against the side of Blaine’s neck. Seizing the opportunity, he turns both of them over on the sheets, one hand splayed over the expanse of Kurt’s chest and holding him down as Blaine slides lower, underneath the shadow of their covers.

“I want to _see_ you,” complains Kurt, hand digging into the muscle of Blaine’s shoulder.

“Don’t want you to catch cold.”

“Are you _kidding_ me right now? I’ve never felt so — _oh_.”

Kurt doesn’t fall silent, chest rising and falling nervously as Blaine settles himself near the start of Kurt’s thigh, open-mouthed kisses hidden where Kurt can’t see, but can certainly _feel_ as his muscles tighten under the attention. Tilting to the side, Blaine kisses along the side of Kurt’s shaft, breathing in deep the heady scent that lingers on his skin. Soon, the press of lips is replaced by the drag of the tongue, punctuated with a chuckle as Kurt twists violently above, spine arching up and away from the mattress.

“Oh god, oh. _Oh_.”

And Blaine takes advantage of Kurt’s lapse in control, licking with the flat of his tongue before taking Kurt between his lips, sinking deep just in time for Kurt’s fingers to thread through his curls, tugging sharply, insistently, in time with a slight buck of his hips. Blaine revels in every reaction, in the intimacy no longer soft but _desperate_. In being able to read every reaction, fingers brushing up and along the line of coarse hair that stretches down from Kurt’s navel, further up to the curve underneath his ribcage, where the rise of fall of breath stands clear.

Seizing just before Kurt shatters.

Neither of them quite dares to speak in the moments after, the haze heavy in Kurt’s eyes as he gently tugs at Blaine’s chin, pulling them eye level until they both sink into the mess of pillows. As he slips down from the high, Blaine starts making note of a dozen little details that don’t quite fit, aren’t quite comfortable — the cover sheet is too thin, and the pillows are too thick, Blaine’s neck already aching as he tries to settle into a better position. But as he glances over, catching the rise and fall of Kurt’s chest, Blaine finds that he can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is the ache of his chest as he watches Kurt’s breath grow shallow, even and heavy with threat of sleep, even as his hands continue to brush over every inch of Blaine’s skin they can reach. As his lids fall heavily to a close, Blaine lets Kurt feel his way around instead, lips pursed and occasionally slotting as Kurt’s hand wanders lower still. Soon enough, Blaine finds himself forced to pull back, their foreheads heavy against one another as Blaine rocks into Kurt’s touch.

He won’t remember if he made a sound, but Blaine easily feels Kurt’s name on the tip of his tongue, comforting and familiar.

They escape the chill of air circulating against damp skin by means of a tangle of limbs and warm breath, and it’s in the minutes after that Kurt finally allows himself to relax fully, vulnerable and open as he nestles himself in Blaine’s arms, hand splayed over the center of Blaine’s chest. Blaine can feel him trembling; he holds on tighter, sure, watching as Kurt keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, burying his face underneath Blaine’s chin at the slightest threat of movement.

Kurt needs a moment; Blaine has an infinite number to give.

He feels those three words again, pressed against his skin, before the pair sinks into sleep at last.

* * *

A shrill ring wakes Blaine in the early hours of the morning. He turns, muffling a groan into his pillow, not quite stifled as a fist comes down weakly in protest against his chest, Kurt shifting and turning his back to Blaine as he stubbornly chases after sleep.

“Good morning to you, too,” Blaine laughs, dropping a quick kiss to the back of Kurt’s neck.

Clumsily, Blaine extricates himself from the sheets, shivering at the shock of cold as he slips out from underneath the covers, feet padding lightly on carpet as he searches through every pocket of his coat before finding the right one, phone buzzing against his palm.

He almost flips it off before noticing the name on the screen and ducking into the bathroom.

“Hey, Rachel. What’s up?”


	20. Act XX: Kurt

“Are you kidding me?”

Either Blaine doesn’t hear, or doesn’t know how to respond as he continues pacing the length of the room, picking up after the both of them and laying out new outfits for the day. Biting down the temptation to point out that _no_ one decides Kurt’s outfits but himself, Kurt scoots closer to the foot of the bed, letting both of his legs hang over the side of the mattress as he runs his hand hastily through his hair.

“Blaine, we _promised_ to keep this weekend open for one another.”

Finally, Blaine looks up, his expression reading to Kurt as either frustrated or apologetic; he can’t decide which is worse.

“ _Kurt_.”

Okay, the former. The former is definitely worse.

“Fine, _barring_ any sudden emergencies, yes,” says Kurt, rolling his eyes and half tempted to tug his clothes sharply away from where Blaine’s taking the time to lay one color against another, sliding through the weather predictions for the day. “But, might I point out that Rachel Berry securing herself an audition on Broadway is hardly an emergency? Heck, it’s hardly even reason to _celebrate_. An audition means very little when there are usually dozens of people vying for the lead role.”

He falls silent when Blaine gives up on the clothing at last, dropping a pair of ties over Kurt’s outfit before slipping both hands into his pockets, rounding the bed to sit at Kurt’s side. “You know that this isn’t about Rachel’s audition, Kurt.”

Thinning his lips, Kurt shakes his head. “No, I’ll tell you what I know. What I _know_ is that ever since I first met Rachel Berry back in our sophomore year of high school, she’s always been prone to exaggeration, Blaine.”

“Wes said—”

“Wes got his account of _whatever_ this is from her, and even after only knowing him for a couple of months, I can tell how anal retentive he is.” As Blaine arches a brow, Kurt shakes his head. “Which is not a bad trait in a PR manager or whatever he does for you, I’ll admit, but I’m telling you, Rachel Berry crying scandal carries about as much weight as the average cry from the boy who cried wolf.”

“You’re not making this any easier for me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

He stares intently at Blaine, trying to communicate with a look alone. The call came when Kurt was still asleep, little else registering beyond the quiet exchange of words from the bathroom, Blaine’s far softer than the shrill pierce of Rachel’s voice from the earpiece of his cell phone. At first, it didn’t seem to matter that his boyfriend and best friend were speaking without him — Rachel had a tendency of clinging to the first person who’d indulge her, and Blaine was nothing if not a listening ear, but the longer the conversation went on, the harder Kurt tried to extricate himself from the sheets.

Being woken at that hour was enough of an offense, but having their trip cut in half leaves Kurt feeling _livid_.

Even though he knows he’s not directing that anger towards the right person.

Blaine sighs heavily under the weight of Kurt’s scrutiny, stepping forward to wrap Kurt in an embrace that mollifies him slightly, calming his bristling nerves.

“Look, if it really isn’t a big deal, then I _promise_ you that we’ll cut out early,” murmurs Blaine, reaching up to brush at errant strands of Kurt’s hair, straightening the lock. “Rachel’s apartment is close enough to the subway that we’d be able to get back here in no time. Or even book a hotel on Fifth Ave, if you’d rather. I would brave that for you. But don’t you think it’s better to at least check in and make sure this isn’t something we should be concerned about?”

Kurt wrinkles his nose.

“She’s your friend, isn’t she?” Blaine asks, far less conviction in his voice than before.

“Best friend,” Kurt mumbles, “in a manner of speaking. But that only makes me feel all the more sure that she’s blowing something out of proportion just to get us out there.”

“How sure are you?” Pulling away, Blaine continues to sort through their belongings, stepping around the room and checking underneath the furniture for anything left behind.

“Ninety nine point five percent sure.”

Blaine allows himself a small, but triumphant grin. “Are you willing to stake your best friend’s happiness, perhaps even her future, on that kind of a hunch?”

Kurt hates that Blaine has a point.

* * *

Between them, Blaine is the first to leave the hotel, parting with a kiss to Kurt’s cheek and with promises that he’ll make the trek worth Kurt’s while. It’s hard to begrudge those eyes, that smile, both sincere and hopeful almost to a fault. Kurt suspects that Blaine will come to use that look to his advantage, and as he waits the requisite fifteen minutes before he sets out for the lobby, spends an inordinate amount of time folding up their clothes and trying to come up with a laundry list of methods he might use to get over his weakness for Blaine’s expressions.

He gives up when the best idea that comes to mind seems to be wearing mirrored sunglasses indoors.

Twice during his wait, Kurt’s phone buzzes with calls from Rachel, and he takes a twisted sort of pleasure in declining the calls as he checks out from the hotel, then climbs into the taxi. As he stares out of the window into the busy streets, Kurt takes his time to relax, everything from rolling his shoulders to stretching out his jaw. Even though they’ve been best friends for years, there’s still something about dealing with Rachel Berry that steals patience away from Kurt. Something about engaging with a vocal person after so many years of having his own voice silenced that still grates on his nerves.

By the time he reaches her front door, he’s coaxed a smile back onto his own lips, calmer after the relative quiet and solitude.

He’s greeted with a rush of brunette waves, dark and glossy as a pair of arms wrap tightly around his shoulders and a voice chirps, muffled against his chest. “ _Kurt!_ Thank you so, _so_ much for making it out here. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning! I was afraid that you’d gotten lost in traffic, or had decided not to come,” Rachel sighs, pulling back to drop her hand in his and using the other to push the door further open, practically tugging both of them inside the apartment.

“Let’s just say that you’re very lucky that my first foray back into dating landed me with a man that has the patience of a _saint_ where you’re concerned,” murmurs Kurt, the corner of his mouth quirking as he rolls his suitcase into the apartment, something about the space feeling smaller now after his time spent out wandering the city’s sights. “Sorry I didn’t return any of your calls, but I figured that it was probably best we didn’t talk too much while there were prying ears around.”

Whisking into the kitchen, Kurt hears the sound of running water before Rachel’s reply. “Mmm, and you’re sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you want to _shake_ me now for ruining your nice weekend out?”

Kurt arches his brow. “There’s that, too.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” says Rachel, a slight rattle sounding, likely that of a kettle being set on the stove. “Make yourself at home, obviously. I cleaned up a little in preparation for Blaine coming over, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still settle however you like. As long as the cushions on the couch stay in place; I made sure to trade everything out for complementary colors. Is jasmine tea okay?”

“Can we swap out for green? I’m not in the mood for anything floral,” says Kurt, parking his luggage next to the entertainment center before lowering himself neatly onto the couch, legs crossed in front of him. “Speaking of Blaine, though, are you going to fill me in on what’s going on? Or are you planning to keep me in the dark until Blaine’s here to keep me calm?”

Rachel’s lips thin as she steps back out into the open space of the living room, arms carefully folded over her chest, but even the most carefully arranged of expressions doesn’t hide the bright shine in her eyes. “Oh Kurt, come _on_ , don’t be all petty with me now,” she sighs, seating herself down right next to Kurt, immediately wrapping her hands around his arm and pulling up close. “You know that I’ve been hoping that you’d make room to date for _years_ now and that I’d never want to jeopardize that. If I’m interrupting the two of you now, it’s only because I feel like the two of you are in it for the long haul. I mean, have you _seen_ the way you two are about one another? Taken a step back and looked at just how smitten you are?”

Leveling her with an unimpressed look, Kurt raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, okay,” Rachel says with a pout. “I’ll get to the point. But I want you to promise me that you won’t freak out.”

“I won’t freak out if you don’t tell me something worth freaking out over.”

“You’re impossible.” Nestling closer to Kurt and juggling her foot, Rachel tilts her head. “Okay, so here’s the thing. Blaine and I ran into each other shortly before your little weekend excursion out at this little café downtown. Why he was there isn’t really important — though if you must know, he asked me about what I thought he should go about confessing his love for you, so really, you should be thanking me that this weekend happened at all — but _alright_ , stop giving me that look. The point is, even though he couldn’t have been there for more than ten minutes, we were… kind of spotted.”

Nearly caving to a laugh, Kurt’s stamps down his smile and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. “So are you telling me that the first scandal that my boyfriend gets into after we start dating is… with my best friend?”

Rachel bites her lower lip and nods.

With a slight purse of his lips, Kurt grins at last, relaxed as he huffs a laugh and sinks further back against the cushions. “Well, you didn’t need to drag us all the way to your apartment for _that_ , though I appreciate the concern. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure my ego can withstand seeing pictures of the both of you in the tabloids that somehow still make their way to the magazine racks in front of grocery store cash registers.”

“Kurt, that’s not—”

“—although I must say, I’m a little surprised that there weren’t first rumors of the both of you being somehow related, because the two of you have some pretty similar features.”

Smacking his arm slightly, Kurt withdraws with a flinch when Rachel’s expression sets stubbornly. “ _Kurt_ , slow down, that’s not everything there is to know.” Rubbing her brow briefly, Rachel shakes her head. “Look, at first that’s all I thought it’d be too, and I wasn’t worried because, like you said, I’m married anyway and it’s not like you’re going to care if the paparazzi snaps a few shots of me and Blaine together in a café. But _apparently_ , this news lit up all over the Broadway forums, with Blaine’s avid fans trying to figure out who I was, what I do for a living, and obviously anyone who’s a fan of both Blaine Anderson and musicals started rattling off a list of roles that he’d be good in.”

The click in Kurt’s mind is practically audible, but he holds his comments for the time being.

“And _suddenly_ , I have people calling my house, people who I’m pretty sure were eager to turn away my auditions or just never get back to me about them, now asking if I’d ever given thought to pulling Blaine Anderson over to a Broadway show.”

“Oh _god_.”

Quickly reacting to Kurt’s exasperation, Rachel shakes her head quickly and squeezes his arm, her tone immediately beseeching. “Okay, look, I know that it’s a long stretch, and I know that _Blaine’s_ the one I’m supposed to be asking, but I couldn’t help but poke around with some questions, you know,” she says with a deep sigh. “And one of the plays that I was auditioning for, the revival of _Cinderella_ , got back to me and heavily hinted that I could secure the lead role for myself if Blaine would play opposite me.”

Kurt blinks, unsure where to begin.

“It’s really short notice, I’m sure, especially considering how often Blaine’s on tour these days.” Ignoring Kurt’s fervent nod, Rachel presses on. “But all I need is Blaine’s support this once to really launch my career, Kurt. You _know_ that I have the voice for Broadway, you know how it’s been my _dream_ ever since I started vocal training as a toddler, and you know how much one good role can mean for an actor on Broadway.”

Immediately latching onto the sound of a whistle from the kitchen, Kurt gets to his feet. “I think we’re ready for some tea, what about you?”

Not letting Kurt slip more than three steps away, Rachel follows on his heel, arms now tightly crossed over her chest and shoulders slightly bowed. “It’s only a few weeks of Blaine being busy and largely unavailable, but isn’t that already your guys’ status quo? Until he’s secured his place as a reliable artist and gets to schedule tours around your shows, it’s not like I’d be taking a lot of time away from either of you to begin with,” pleads Rachel, watching as Kurt searches around her cupboards for mugs and sugar. “Just a few weeks to you, but this could be a _huge_ career change for me! Plus, with this as a cover, the both of you might even have more room to spend time together in public without drawing suspicion—”

Rachel suddenly falls quiet as Kurt turns to give her a look. He turns back to the kettle, lifting it off the stove and turning it off, then pulling a box of teabags out to place on her tray.

The problem isn’t in Rachel asking for a favor, especially not when breaking out into this industry so often involves the luck of the draw — Kurt never wants to do anything to lessen someone else’s chances of success. Still, he silently carries the heavy tray over to the living room table, hoping not to be forced to put into words what he feels should be obvious by now.

It’s not wrong to ask a favor, but he doesn’t want it conflated with empty promises.

“Kurt?”

Running his hand down the back of his neck, Kurt focuses on the steam rising up from the kettle for a second before turning his gaze to Rachel, feeling strangely drained, no tug of emotion in any direction or another.

“Let’s just wait until Wes is here. I don’t… I want to hear what he says.”

* * *

For twenty minutes now, Kurt’s been absolutely silent. His hands are wrapped around his third mug of tea, and he’s pretty sure that the teabag’s been run to its very last breath of life, every gulp bitter now against his tongue. In the time it’s taken for Wes to arrive at Rachel’s flat, the sun’s started a slight descent, still searing and bright as it filters in through Rachel’s sheer curtains, the worn wooden hardboards underneath their feet practically lighting up with color. The contrast of the setting against his mood feels jarring.

Seated across both Kurt and Rachel in a large, wicker chair, Wes sips neatly at his tea, the bag smartly draped just past the rim of the mug.

“Well, if you were waiting for me to give you heavy encouragement for the idea, I’m afraid I can’t,” Wes says after a pause, wrapping the string of the teabag around the handle and tying it there with a precise tug. He glances up in time to catch Rachel’s crestfallen expression and offers a neutral shrug of his shoulders. “There’s nothing for Blaine to gain from the proposal. Broadway isn’t going to give him a broader audience than he usually has; instead, it’s likely that the theaters would be packed with fans of his simply going the extra mile to see him on stage. Financially, he won’t make as much from this as he would recording an album or taping one of his showings from a tour. There’s nothing great and philanthropic about a foray into theater for him to gain positive press from.”

Each added point seems to shake Rachel’s confidence further and further. Kurt can’t decide whether he feels vindictive or sympathetic; it feels like there isn’t room enough in his head for both.

“He could at least secure his reputation as an artist capable of singing live,” murmurs Rachel, pulling her mug of tea up to her lips and blowing faintly. “Or get some positive review for his acting skills. Establish himself as a triple threat.”

“Still not enough for me to endorse your proposal,” sighs Wes, keeping his exhale slow and measured. “That said, there’s nothing much that being in the play would _endanger_ for Blaine, either, so I think the thing to do is leave the decision to Blaine. It’s his time at stake.”

“What about my point regarding using me as a romantic cover?” Rachel asks, her tone edged and firm. “If the tabloids are already speaking now, knowing next to nothing about me, I imagine that the idea of a tryst would only be strengthened by us constantly working together in dance rehearsals, spending the majority of our days together. It’s a scandal all neatly packaged in a bottle, ready to present.”

The grinding of Kurt’s teeth is practically audible, both Wes and Rachel’s gazes flickering towards him as he shifts, setting his mug aside and wrapping his arms tightly over his chest, offering no comment.

It should be obvious; it’s almost alarming that it isn’t. Keeping one’s private life out of the way is already enough of a burden, as far as Kurt’s concerned, and he doesn’t even have that many prying eyes to shy away from. Blaine’s the one he’s most concerned about, the one who falls more greatly under the spotlight, whatever amount that Kurt’s tugged along for paling in comparison. A mere day spent together has already shown Kurt all the murmurs that crop up as they walk together, all the instincts that they have to suppress — a yearning to slip his hand in Blaine’s, a desire to kiss for a stolen second, a shadowed corner. None of that is accessible unless they want to jeopardize privacy, the real price Blaine seems to have paid in pursuit of fame.

And hiding itself is a far cry from painting another picture entirely. Smiling when one doesn’t want to.

A knock sounds on the door, relieving Kurt from the weight of all eyes on him. “I’ll get that,” he declares at once, rising to his feet and leaving Wes and Rachel to continue discussing the idea, their voices softer than before in tone and volume alike.

Blaine smiles as soon as the door opens.

“Hey!” he greets, leaning halfway in before he pauses, instead patting Kurt’s upper arm heavily with a clap or two of his hand. “Long time no see, Kurt.” In spite of the empty hallway, Blaine waits until the door’s shut quietly behind him before he reaches out, both hands curling around Kurt’s waist and tugging him closer, just managing to coax a thin smile onto Kurt’s expression.

“Hello,” Kurt murmurs.

“You could stand to look a little happier to see me,” replies Blaine, bumping their noses together. “Considering how much of a fuss you made when we had to part ways this morning.” Before giving Kurt a chance to respond, Blaine tilts his head just so to capture Kurt’s lips, the kiss soft and pliant, not too deep for the company both of them are all too conscious of having.

Already, the weekend’s slipped away from them, and Kurt huffs a small sigh as he raises both hands to smooth down Blaine’s shoulders.

“I _am_ happy to see you. But my brain still hasn’t shifted from the idea of this being a downgrade from our original plans for the weekend.”

“Point taken.” Blaine glances over in the direction of the living room, slipping out of his shoes and lining them up next to the other pairs by the door. “So what’s going on? Is it serious?”

“Do you want me to tell you, or do you want to wait and hear it from Rachel’s words?”

“They’re talking.” After a pause, Blaine shakes his head. “Tell me. I trust you to be straight and upfront about this.”

“Rachel’s being considered for the lead role in the Broadway revival of _Cinderella_ ,” Kurt says, careful to keep his tone entirely neutral, though he has to actively turn his gaze down, afraid of giving himself away. “But, the casting director being as fame-mongering as he apparently is, they’re more or less offering it on the condition that you take up the role of the prince.”

Blaine’s brow furrows immediately, any initial excitement leaving the tilt of his lips. “Wait, why? I mean, performing on Broadway would be a dream come true, but I’ve never hinted that I wanted to go in that direction. I don’t know if I even have the kind of power necessary for a stage performance like that.”

A dream come true. Kurt hesitates at those words, not wanting to stamp down on something that might be fun for Blaine — but there’s a conversation going on in the living room that he wants Blaine to be present for, aware of, fully enabling him to make a decision as he sees fit.

“You two were spotted at a café.”

The implication in Kurt’s words registers immediately in Blaine’s expression, his jaw hardening as he ducks his head, staring at the ground with a slight nod. It almost comes as a surprise that comprehension dawns so quickly for Blaine, but it only makes Kurt wonder further still how often this sort of speculation has been thrown Blaine’s way, how many interviews he’s had to sit through, whether or not any of his other friendships have been misconstrued in this way before.

More and more, the talk really isn’t Kurt’s to have.

“Blaine, you know that I—”

“Hold on, Kurt.”

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Blaine pauses for a few seconds longer before turning in the direction of the living room, Kurt following a few paces behind and stopping before he quite makes it over the threshold, Blaine’s presence practically drawing a line along the perimeter of the room. Stopping Kurt. Silently asking that he keeps a distance.

Rachel and Wes fall silent, but not immediately, their words fading slowly as they come to a gradual halt.

“Are you guys seriously starting to discuss this without me?”

Kurt feels his breath catch in his throat.

It’s Rachel who stammers first, eyes wide with realization. Kurt wishes that he could see Blaine’s expression, but there’s something carefully folded about the stance, angled just so that all Kurt can see is the span of Blaine’s back.

“We, we weren’t going to _do_ anything without talking to you first, Blaine. Kurt, did you already tell him? Did you tell him the full story?”

Holding a hand up to stall Kurt’s answer, Blaine takes a deep breath. “Someone spotted us at the café, right?” Rachel nods. “And now we’re basically being asked to star together in a Broadway production?”

Rachel nods again.

“Doesn’t seem that complex to me. That’s pretty much how Kurt described it, actually.”

Drawing further back in her seat, Rachel shakes her head minutely; off to the side, Wes drops his gaze, his expression stoic, unreadable. When neither of them speaks further, Blaine draws up his shoulders, the both of them squared as his head turns to look at either of them, hands pulled out of his pockets to rest at his sides.

“I know that it isn’t easy to break into the business. I may not have the experience that both of you do, running between auditions, but I looked at theater as an option when I was in high school, trying to figure out what programs I wanted to apply to. I know that most folks on Broadway have to hold other jobs to make enough to live in this area, I know that it isn’t terribly glamorous, it’s hard to be the top one percent among a group that’s already among the world’s finest dancers and singers,” says Blaine, one hand constantly shifting, loosening and fisting again, less as a threat, and more in a pattern. “But this is kind of presumptuous, isn’t it? Talking about your plans before I even agree to them? Talking about them in front of _Kurt?_ Rachel, what you’re proposing… we’d be encouraging a _lie_.”

Carefully, Kurt rests his head against the wall.

“Blaine, that was never my intention, I’m sorry—”

“I know. That’s… the worst part. I know you mean well, and I want you to have this opportunity, and I’d have a lot of fun on stage too, I know that. But I already feel like, like this weekend, having to hide what I have with Kurt was the hardest thing I’ve had to do. And he doesn’t even have a spotlight to look forward to in this arrangement, so you should be asking him too, right?”

There’s a shock of amber as Blaine suddenly turns around, his face flushed and the shine of his eyes wavering, not just from the room’s light.

It’s supposed to be a simple thing. They’re supposed to revel in just having shared those three words with one another only hours ago. The world is supposed to stop for them, pause under the feet, yet it doesn’t, and Kurt can’t fathom where to start.

“Hey,” he says with a small smile. “You don’t need to worry about me finding the spotlight. _Cinderella_ isn’t the only ongoing show slated to start in the spring.”

Blaine laughs, the breath rushed and wavering.

“Kurt,” he says after a moment, finding his voice again. “I want you to decide this.”

Rubbing at his forehead, Kurt inhales deeply, then drops both hands suddenly, letting them smack against his sides. “Well, I don’t. Want to decide this. Blaine, Rachel’s my best friend, and she has been for years, and I would do a great deal to see her succeed on Broadway. And I would selfishly enjoy the _heck_ out of seeing my handsome boyfriend take center stage as well. If you do this, nobody’s going to be asking me what’s going on, they’ll just think I’m some other kid on Broadway.”

“Kurt—”

“Besides,” interrupts Kurt with a raise of his shoulder. “I still have the ability to ruin you at any moment with an ill-timed expose. They’d pay a lot of money to get my story into the magazines, I’m pretty sure. I have photos on my phone.”

His shoulders tense for a moment, gauging Blaine’s expression, but fortunately, Blaine seems to know not to take the joke as a threat. Every sentence feels like it spills out of Kurt’s lips, words that he may or may not come to regret, all rushed in an effort to help Blaine situate himself.

It’s strange, feeling like that’s all that matters to him. He’s watched after himself for so long.

“Okay,” says Blaine with a slight nod.

In the background, Rachel sits up on the sofa, one hand braced against the cushions.

“Okay?”

“Okay, I think I want to give it a try. I want to see what Broadway is like.”

Kurt doesn’t know the reasons for Blaine’s decision in so many words, but they register in his stance and his expression, both open enough that Kurt makes his way over with open arms. Embracing in front of Rachel and Wes leaves him feeling a little exposed, especially after having been run raw in their conversations, but Kurt buries his face against the side of Blaine’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, fingers curling in the thick fabric of his shirt.

“We’ll talk about this later?” asks Kurt, muffling his words against skin.

“You don’t want to talk now? Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Nodding, Kurt pulls back enough to press a quick peck against Blaine’s cheek. “I’m sure. I just need a walk, okay? I’m going to head back to my apartment, and… give me a call when you’re done.”

Blaine presses his lips thin in understanding and Kurt extricates himself from the embrace, no need for a spoken farewell to either Rachel or Wes as the latter waves him off. Raising his hand with a grin, Kurt turns to leave the apartment, the calm in his chest contrastingly sharply with the thrum of his skin.

He feels like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve, suddenly unsure how to tuck it back under the fold of his cuff.


	21. Act XXI: Rachel

**Act XXI: Rachel**

Being a successful, ambitious woman is a matter of striking a delicate balance. Push too hard, and people assume one’s being unpleasant. Don’t push hard enough, and it becomes all too easy to be swept under the rug. It’s been years since Rachel felt the need to voice every opinion and snatch every executive decision for herself, the memories of being the star of her high school glee club fading a bit more by the day, but there are still times when Rachel feels like she’s just as inexperienced now as she was back then, trying to find footing in spite of the ever-shifting ground underneath her.

She’s yet to seize a victory without incurring a sharp cost.

Nestling her phone between her shoulder and her ear, Rachel busies herself in the kitchen, the smell of spiced cider in the air as she dips her ladle into the simmering pot to try for a taste.

“Rachel?”

“Hey, handsome,” replies Rachel with a smile, blowing steam away from the cider and setting the lid of the pot down on her kitchen counter, using her newly freed hand to carry the phone as she rolls the tension out of her shoulder. “Just thought I’d call to check in. I haven’t heard from you for a couple of days. Are you still having fun out there in Lima?”

Hearing a small huff of breath on the other side of the line, Rachel’s smile widens. It’s one of those sounds she knows to be indicative of a good mood, a small breath that rests on the cusp of a laugh. Her heart aches for a second as she leans in to take her sip, licking her lips in thought before reaching for another stick of cinnamon.

“Yeah, I am, actually,” Finn says, a slight rustling of fabric sounding over the phone. “I mean, I miss you and everything, but it’s really nice to spend some time with the family after the holiday rush. Most people who came back to visit have left already, and I didn’t get to see everyone before they went — like, Sam stopped by, but I actually didn’t see Puck at all. Now it’s just mom, Burt, and Kurt in the house. Kinda like old times.”

“It sounds great,” Rachel murmurs, lowering the heat of the stove before tugging her sweater higher over her shoulders and padding over to the living room sofa, curling up in the corner. “You know I would have stayed longer, but rehearsals start next week, and I wanted to fit in a few vocal lessons before starting with the rest of the cast.”

“I remember that. How are those going, by the way?”

“Well, I’m still no Julie Andrews, it turns out. My coach keeps on telling me that I have a bit too much raw power in my style, that it doesn’t really suit the tone and feel of _Cinderella_ , so I’ve been struggling.” Tugging her knees up to her chest, Rachel sets her chin atop her sleeve, burying her face against the fabric. “It’s also super lonely around here without you guys. If I end up buying a puppy to keep me company in your absence, you can’t hold it against me.”

Finn laughs in earnest this time, one that Rachel returns with a wavering smile pressed close to the mouthpiece. Somehow, Ohio always seems to soften him.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, though if you’re going to buy a dog for us, I hope it’s one of the bigger breeds. You know I always wanted a dog growing up, right? But my mom said we couldn’t afford one on her salary, and it was always seen as kinda lame to play with stuffed animals, so I’d just watch movies over and over, like _Shiloh_ and stuff.”

“Beagles aren’t exactly a big breed, you know.”

“You get what I mean.”

Stretching her legs out again and sinking into the cushions with a sigh, Rachel nods. “Yeah, I do.”

“So, what’s up? Unless you only called to say you miss me, which would be totally flattering, but also kinda not how you operate.”

“What are you talking about? I call you all the time!” pouts Rachel, shifting on the couch until she’s spread out on her side.

“Yeah, but you also always ask about something, y’know? Which is cool, I don’t mind or anything, I’ve just come to expect it from you. Actually, whenever I talk to the guys, it’s kind of relieving to know that I never have to do as much guesswork as the rest of them.”

“As long as you don’t hold it against me.” Rachel traces the lining of her cushion, hesitating. “I did want to ask how Kurt was doing, though. I must have tried calling him a dozen times by now, but he never answers and sometimes I get sent to voicemail quickly enough that I’m _sure_ he’s outright ignoring my calls. I’ve tried calling Blaine, too, but he’s still a little short with me on the phone. It feels like the both of them are madder at me than they want to admit to.”

“You want me to ask him what’s going on? Hold on, he’s right here—”

“ _Wait_ , Finn, don’t—”

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Rachel pulls the phone closer to her ear, trapping it between herself and the cushion and straining to hear the muffled words in the background. The tone of Kurt’s voice comes across clearly enough, neutral and measured, but Rachel can’t make out a single word, save for what sounds like a muttered version of her name.

“Dude,” Finn whispers over the sound of footsteps, the sound of a closing door following shortly. “I think you should really talk to him once he gets back to New York. He didn’t say anything, but like, he looks sorta pissed.”

“I _knew_ it.”

“I mean, I wasn’t really happy when you sprang the whole _Cinderella_ thing on me without warning either. Kurt probably feels worse.”

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Rachel rolls her eyes behind closed lids, raising a hand to press against her forehead. If the universality of everyone’s opinions is anything to go by, then she’s made a huge mistake this time, a miscalculation that might cost her a couple of friendships, including the one that’s kept her anchored best over the years. Her lips thin at the thought. “I really don’t want to hear this from you, too,” she says softly.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

Rachel shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. I know that you’re doing your best to help, and I really appreciate it.”

She waits a few seconds for him to reply, unable to put her finger on why Finn hesitates, or registering much beyond the slight twist of her stomach as the silence stretches, fading into the atmosphere of the room. “I really do miss you,” she adds, throat tight.

“Me too. I love you, Rach.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

**Rachel ♥ (2:17)**  
I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now  
But I think we really need to talk  
We’re going to be starting in less than a week anyway so we may as well take some time to figure this out

 **Rachel ♥ (2:46)**  
I’m sorry

* * *

Her smile turns on as soon as the green light flickers at the top of her laptop, shining right next to the camera. Recording or streaming video on the computer has always afforded a strange sort of comfort to Rachel, being able to see that immediate feedback, to know the expressions that she wears and mold them at will. There’s sincerity in her smile as soon as she sees her fathers on the screen, the both of them crowding one another as they sit on the office chair — but it’s the truths she wants them to see, and not the complete picture.

“And how is our little girl doing tonight?” Hiram asks, carefully planting his chin against the center of his palm, leaning forward to take up most of the screen. “Busy preparing for her _lead role_ on Broadway? Have people started lining up outside your door for autographs yet?”

“Daddy, stop it,” laughs Rachel, glancing down with a slight scrunch of her nose and tucking her hair behind an ear. “Though I fully expect a wide smattering of praise and adoration once the play opens, we haven’t even started rehearsals yet. Even I know that to expect anything before opening night is asking far, far too much of fans.”

“Your father is simply trying to get you pumped up for the role, Rachel,” LeRoy points out, reaching around his husband’s shoulders and giving them a tight squeeze. “And I do have to say, you’ve been more subdued about your first lead role than I expected. We were all set to throw you a big party—”

“—and we did throw together a little soirée, actually, invited all the neighbors to let them know of your success, and I think many of them are quite thrilled for you.”

“But you’ve been quiet. You haven’t even tried performing any of the numbers for us yet over video chat.” LeRoy glances at Hiram, nodding for backup.

“Ooh, unless that’s why you asked for a call today? We have champagne in the fridge, I can tell Papa to go grab a bottle for us.”

Shaking her head quickly, Rachel’s cheeks ache as she giggles. “No, that’s okay; I think it’s a little late to be forcing that on the neighbors, especially after they’ve already grown accustomed to my vocal runs early in the morning.” She presses a hand to her cheek, rubbing softly. “Actually, I was calling to ask if there was any chance that the both of you could fly out to New York for my first rehearsal next week? I know it’s asking a lot, and it’s really sudden of me, but I guess missing Thanksgiving hit me harder than I thought it would this year, and I’m worried that I won’t be able to head back for Christmas either.”

Lips parting in surprising, Hiram shakes his head once before quickly nodding, the heel of his palm sliding against his neck. “Oh, honey, of _course_ we can book a pair of tickets out to see you; you only had to ask. Darling, look, she misses us,” he adds, turning to give his husband a pointed look.

LeRoy continues to gaze at the camera, brow wrinkling slightly.

“Darling, you usually don’t tug on our sleeves to go watch you until you’ve had at least two weeks to practice,” he murmurs, nudging for Hiram to make room, earning an affronted expression from his partner. “Tell us what’s wrong. It’s okay to be upset even if you have good things happening in your life — you remember our talk, yes?”

Shoulders buckling slightly in surprise at being caught, Rachel strains to try and keep her expression as neutral as possible, but already her eyes feel suddenly heated at the corners. “Well, ah… you know that Kurt’s still in Lima, right?”

Both of her fathers nod, pulling a grateful smile back onto Rachel’s face.

“I might be reading too much into things, but I think Kurt’s angry with me. Really angry. And I’m almost _certain_ that I wouldn’t have this role if it weren’t for Blaine agreeing to act alongside me, which isn’t great for my confidence, and it’s been shaky since I started auditioning to begin with — it was easier when I had Kurt here and telling me how great I still was. He gets this industry, and he helps me keep perspective, and I feel like I’ve lost that. Plus, Blaine won’t speak to me either.” Rachel glowers down at her keyboard, forehead wrinkling. “Which doesn’t bode well for our stage chemistry. _Cinderella_ isn’t exactly an angry musical.”

“I assume you’ve tried speaking with him?”

“Multiple times.”

Hiram frowns, tilting his head. “I don’t understand; why wouldn’t he be happy for you?”

Before Rachel has a chance to reply, LeRoy nudges Hiram’s arm. “Honey, remember? Kurt’s the friend who’s dating Blaine.”

With a slow inhale, Hiram nods, comprehension dawning. “ _Ahhh_ , yes. Suddenly everything makes sense.”

“I’m not following,” Rachel interjects flatly. “Care to explain?”

“Rachel, you mentioned that one of the reasons why you thought the casting committee was so eager to secure you was because of all the swirl in the tabloids, correct?” LeRoy asks, folding his hands neatly on his lap.

“That’s right.”

“I have copies of all of those magazines, by the way. You photograph remarkably well in paparazzi shots.”

“ _Daddy_.”

“So I’m sure the idea of using you as a cover came up at some point?” LeRoy continues, pushing Hiram to the side with the back of his hand. “I’d say ‘beard,’ but I’ve never liked that term very much.”

“It did, but… actually, I was the only one who really brought it up. I thought that Blaine’s publicist would have leapt at the idea, but he was remarkably unenthusiastic.” Rachel tilts her head, arms laid flat on top of her desk, and she stares at her fingers as they’re splayed over the wood. “All that he really mentioned dealt with money and availability and stuff I still haven’t wrapped my head fully around. Appearances on shows are more complicated than I initially thought.”

“Rachel.”

Sheepishly, she glances up, feeling a slight twist of her stomach. With her papa, it’s never been very difficult to read the implication in his words, every sentence purposeful and direct. Pulling her hands together, Rachel twists at her wedding band, once again secure on her finger.

“Kurt told me a little bit about the conversations they had about coming out publicly, and I know they haven’t, and I know that they have to sneak around if they want to have dates at all. I understand how it must be tough to read about who your partner might be with and not even be a blip on anyone’s radar. It reminds me of high school, actually, when Finn and Quinn were dating.” Rachel bites down on her lip, rubbing her hands together before briefly looking up again. Even then, she doesn’t look into the camera, settling instead for watching her fathers’ faces on the monitor.

She stares as her parents turn to face one another.

“Let me take this one,” LeRoy murmurs, just in time for Hiram to rise silently from the seat.

“I’ll go book the plane tickets.”

Waiting until his steps fade in the distance, LeRoy tugs on his chair, wheeling it closer to the desk and smiling softly. He lets out a deep exhale. “You should know that this isn’t the easiest topic for your dad,” he says quietly. “It’s interesting to me, actually. From what I’ve known of Kurt, between things you’ve told me and the couple of times we’ve met, he’s actually very much like your father. Hiding who he was wavered between being a nonissue and being the hardest thing he’s ever tried to do. Uhm… both of us have dated women in the past. Obviously, neither of us have enjoyed any extraordinary amount of celebrity, but on a smaller scale, what you’re suggesting for Blaine is a way of life that both of us have experienced.”

“…it’s not like watching my boyfriend get paired off with another woman, is it?”

Grinning widely, LeRoy shakes his head. “Probably not. I can’t speak for everyone any more than you can, but let’s think about it broadly. Simply. Being in the closet, so to speak, is equivalent to tamping down on a part of your personality. How much depends on who you are, sometimes on how much you can get away with, but I think of it as hiding.” His smile fades slightly, eyes glancing to the side and his expression unreadable. “Now, dating someone you’re not and cannot be in love with in that way, or even simply trying to sell that impression to other people, it takes everything a step further. You’re not just hiding, you’re wearing another identity. It’s the difference between passive and active, and for some people, it can be very stifling.”

“I see.”

“And more than that, it’s not an option everyone has. People’s perceptions matter, and how much relief or stress they pull from those perceptions will vary across individuals. Blaine may be just as upset by being told by a friend that he’s able to play straight as Kurt may be by never having that choice.”

Rachel nods.

“Honey, I will _never_ say that you should stop chasing your dreams. I am proud to have a daughter who is this strong and resilient, who has become increasingly resourceful over the years, and is able to turn any situation into a positive experience,” LeRoy adds, leaning in slightly towards the camera. “You are a star, and all I’ve been doing these past couple of decades is waiting for the world to realize that. But you should find a way to talk to your friends and truly understand, to the best of your ability, how they’re feeling too.”

Letting out a puff of air, Rachel draws in a shaky breath and offers a watery smile. “You’re so much nicer than I could ever be, Papa.”

“I learned it all the hard way, pumpkin.”

* * *

Even from behind a pair of sunglasses, Rachel can make out the widening of Blaine’s eyes as he opens his apartment door. She offers a smile where she stands on his doormat, a silken scarf wrapped around her hair and overly large shades obscuring her face from view — Audrey Hepburn without half the finesse, she tells herself.

“Hi! Can I come in?”

Lips groping noiselessly for words, Blaine scratches at the back of his neck, then steps aside to let her inside. Rachel makes her way into the space quickly, wincing as she leans down to unlace her boots, the heels a few inches too high for her to be entirely comfortable in. Every piece of her outfit is meant to throw off her appearance, right down to a couple extra sweaters worn under her overcoat to give her body the semblance of decent padding.

Shutting and locking the door behind him, Blaine leans against the surface, brow raised.

“How… did you get my address?”

Pressing her lips together guiltily, Rachel tugs her scarf down, letting it hang loosely around her neck as she hobbles her way over to the nearest seat, plopping herself down. “Please don’t be too angry about this, but I kind of asked Mike. I told him that you had something of Kurt’s that I needed to pick up for him, since he’s not back from Lima yet, and that I thought Kurt had given me the wrong address.” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure that he could see through my lie, but he must be concerned enough now about Kurt that he’s willing to throw a little caution to the wind.”

Lips agape, Blaine slowly crosses his arms, but Rachel shakes her head before he can get a word in edgewise.

“I know, it’s a horrible breach of privacy and I’m a horrible person for exploiting Kurt’s extremely kind roommate,” she says in a rush of breath. “But… you weren’t talking to me over the phone, and you wouldn’t meet me in person, so I needed to actually track you down and make you listen. And I figured, at this point it’d be easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

“You haven’t exactly done either of these things,” Blaine mutters, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“But I’m here for the former,” she says calmly, slipping into the conversation quickly, just in case Blaine’s on the cusp of asking her to leave. Straightening both shoulders, she waits for him to lower his hand and meet her gaze before she continues. “I know that I gave a passing apology for this whole casting business when we had our initial conversation, but obviously… it wasn’t enough to comfort either you or Kurt. Probably because I didn’t listen.”

Pushing slowly away from the door, almost as though reluctant, Blaine slowly makes his way around to the chair across from Rachel, although he doesn’t sit quite yet.

“And I need to apologize for that. _Really_ apologize for it, not make excuses about wanting to find a job or anything like that. I was presumptuous, and over something that I feel like both of you would have been willing to work with me for had I just been upfront about everything.”

Blaine tilts his head. “Yeah, probably.”

With a wince and a nervous laugh, Rachel wrings her hands on her lap. “Anyway, this isn’t the first time I’ve been kind of a disaster about listening for other people’s feelings. Almost a decade and I’m still… _getting_ there.”

“Hey,” Blaine says with a shrug, “I can’t say that I’m much better myself. Do you _know_ what it’s like to be completely spoiled by your high school glee club and be handed solo after solo?”

“…kind of, actually, yes!”

Chuckling, Blaine’s stance visibly relaxes as he sinks down into the chair at last, though Rachel spots some tension still by his eyes and in the set of his lips. Her chest already feels like it’s spilling over with gratitude, clinging to the understanding so easily offered to her. Wanting to take it a step further.

“So!” Rachel claps her hands over her knees. “If you have any grievances to air, you should let me know. I spent a good half-hour listening to Britney songs to prepare my sense of self-esteem for the hit. I feel practically invincible.”

“You know, truth be told, I… think I already put it all out there. How I feel about all of this, I mean.”

Tugging her lower lip between her teeth, Rachel pulls her shoulders up slightly. “Oh.”

“Wes talked me down from a lot of the anger I was feeling that day. He pointed out that I should probably get used to conversations like ours, if nothing else, because while the industry’s getting better, it’s… really not entirely there yet,” Blaine offers with a slight laugh, breathless in a manner which removed any trace of amusement. “And he pointed out that my harboring a grudge probably wasn’t going to do us any favors for a musical like _Cinderella_.”

Rachel’s eyes widen, hands tightening. “You know, that exact same thought crossed my mind.”

“Yeah, I spent some time just singing it all out. You know, John Gallagher Jr. in _Spring Awakening_ style.”

“Oof, _such_ a good musical,” replies Rachel, blowing up at her bangs. “What I wouldn’t do to play Wendla in a production of that.”

“Hey, you never know what could happen after your first show.”

“Yeah, either I make my historic rise to fame, or I fall into absolute obscurity. As if having a lead role wasn’t terrifying enough without it impacting my future,” she says with a roll of her eyes. Catching a glimpse of Blaine’s smile, Rachel sits up straighter with a sudden thought. “Wait, so… if you’re not bearing a grudge against me for being overly presumptuous, why the silent treatment?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t bearing _any_ amount of a grudge,” admits Blaine, glancing off to the side, his eyes unfocused. “But the real problem is that I haven’t been able to meaningfully get in touch with Kurt since he left for Thanksgiving.”

“Really? I was so sure that he’d be talking with you the whole time.”

Blaine shakes his head, body visibly tense and jaw locking slightly. “I can’t figure out what’s going on. You know, we’ve been great about talking with one another and expressing concerns whenever they come up, but he’s just been so quiet lately. Distracted. I’m worried that this production is bothering him more than he’s letting on, but — I _told_ him that I wanted his input before I made my choice.”

“…maybe he didn’t realize what it’d be like before he agreed to it.”

Hissing between his teeth, the corner of Blaine’s mouth quirks as he slumps back against his chair, rubbing once more over his forehead. “Yeah, maybe.”

Spurred by a slight ache in her chest, Rachel drags her chair closer, enough for her to reach and place her hand on Blaine’s knee, squeezing tight.

“Blaine, we’ll figure this out together. I _promise_.”

* * *

“Rach? What’s going on, are you okay? It’s two in the morning; what are you doing up?”

“I-I’m fine, Finn. Sorry for calling you so late. I just… wanted to say that I really hope you come back to New York soon. I’ve been dancing around this and trying not to pressure you into something you don’t want, but I want more than just my career, you know. I want you. I want us.

“…Finn?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“…do you think we’ll be okay?”

“I _know_ we will be.” 


	22. Act XXII: Blaine

**Blaine (1:32)**  
Welcome back to the Big Apple!! :D  
It’s possible that you haven’t landed yet because your layover was delayed but I wanted to be the first one to welcome you back  
I missed you  <3

**Kurt (1:51)**  
Taxiing now! On the runway.

**Blaine (1:52)**  
!! Can you start taxiing to my apartment soon? I’d prefer that

**Kurt (2:07)**  
Don’t you have rehearsal today?

**Blaine (2:09)**  
I’m in the middle of it right now :P escaping from Rachel

**Kurt (2:13)**  
Well, stop slacking!! I’ll talk to you soon; I need to run anyway to see if they need me at practice.  
I’m an understudy for The Book of Mormon, I found out over my extended Thanksgiving stay.

**Blaine (2:14)**  
WOW! You should have told me! We need to celebrate soon. Okay?

**Kurt (2:16)**  
Of course. ;) I would never give up an opportunity to be the center of attention.

**Blaine (2:17)**  
:* I missed you  <3

**Kurt (2:18)**  
I missed you, too.

* * *

Being on a rehearsal schedule for _Cinderella_ has been more calming than Blaine expected. While he’s no less busy than he used to be on tour, it feels less daunting somehow to know that the majority of the hours he puts into the musical require facing no more than a few dozen familiar faces. In fact, his first week largely limits him to two dance instructors walking him carefully through all of his moves. For the first time in a long time, he’s the underdog once more, no promise of a sudden vault to fame — he’s not as good of a dancer as the rest in the play, his lungs need to be trained further to fill the theater, and if anything, the atmosphere around the cast is a hesitant one. Blaine isn’t here through merit where theater is concerned.

Everyone knows that.

If anything, it makes him work harder. He’s surrounded by praise and mildly amused skepticism when he steps into his shoes as a pop star. People don’t always follow him there for sheer technical ability; instead, it’s a certain charisma that fans seem to grab onto, undeniable by the presses. To have a critical eye upon him again gives him new motivation — especially now that he’s patched over his friendship with Rachel, who seems to be having more of a difficult time coming under fire for riding his coattails into her role.

The only problem is, somehow, he doesn’t have Kurt.

Burying himself in frenzied movement and overly energetic attempts to win over his castmates, it’s not until the sun’s gone down every evening that the silence becomes obvious. With his curls free and peeking out from underneath his woven cap, sometimes he braves the subway, less to save money and more to force himself into contemplation. There’s no signal down in the tunnels, no way for him to call or browse the internet; instead, he browses back through his messages, and in the quiet, notices how they’ve consistently gone down in volume from Kurt. He can’t figure out why.

Rushing up the steps to his apartment, Blaine punches the call button seconds before he makes it to his door, keys jangling in his hand as he tries to find the correct one to slide into his lock, the ring tone distracting and loud against his ear.

“Hello?”

Third ring. Does that mean Kurt was avoiding him?

“Kurt, hey,” breathes Blaine as he closes the front door behind him, sliding all locks in place. His tote gets gently tossed into his laundry room to tend to in a couple hours, and Blaine seats himself at his dining table, leaning away from the back of the furniture. “I just wanted to call and see how you were doing. I feel like it’s been forever since we saw each other, or even… you know, had a good talk?”

“Really? Time’s been flying right by for me,” Kurt replies, something about his tone sounding already different, though Blaine can’t put his finger on it. Lighter, maybe. Distracted? “I’m sorry that I haven’t had as much time to get in contact with you, but between rehearsals and trying to get Mike into the production, I’ve been tiring myself out. It’s amazing that I’m willing to put this much work into a musical and likely not be used for anything beyond the ensemble numbers.”

“No chance of Kevin Price falling ill shortly before the production?”

Kurt sighs audibly; Blaine can almost see the roll of his eyes. “No, I seriously doubt it. This Hunter guy has been pretty great at putting up with everything they throw at him. They’re actually considering adjusting the choreography and making it even more strenuous than it was for the original run — Hunter’s capable of so many backflips in a row that you’d think he was a trapeze artist,” Kurt mutters.

In the background, Blaine hears a series of beeps and a slam of a door, raising his brows. “Kurt Hummel, have you started resorting to the use of a _microwave?_ ”

“It’s just all a huge shame, because I personally think I’d be able to much more effective capture the charisma and energy that Andrew Rannells managed in the original Broadway run,” continues Kurt over the whir of the microwave in the background. “And no judging me for my dietary choices right now; I’m so short on time, it’s not even funny.”

A voice sounds in the background, too muffled for Blaine to make out the words.

“Are you with someone right now?” he asks, words pouring forth before he can stop himself.

“Just Mike and a couple of guys from the production,” Kurt reassures. “But hey, I need to go right now. You’d think that the politics of Broadway would limit itself to the divas, but if I don’t curry favor with all of the ensemble, my life is all that much more likely to be made a hell backstage. If you want, maybe we can get coffee tomorrow morning? Right before rehearsal?”

Blinking, Blaine raises a conceding hand in the air before realizing that Kurt has no way of seeing it. Or his expression. “Yeah, sure, that sounds… really great, actually,” he breathes, hand briefly brushing down the front of his shirt, smoothing the fabric out.

“Great! I’ll text you tomorrow with the location.”

“I love you,” Blaine says in a rush, wincing immediately after.

What if that was too desperate?

“Love you too,” Kurt replies easily, the call ending seconds later.

Even though he knows it’s a victory, and even though Blaine can’t wait to see Kurt again in person, even letting himself hope that they’ll share a kiss or two, everything still settles in his stomach like a heavy weight. Chewing on his lower lip, he taps the phone against his chin, turning to head to his kitchen to pull together a late dinner.

* * *

“How do you feel about Christmas?”

Kurt’s expression mostly remains hidden behind his coffee cup, pressed close to his lip even as they walk. At the right angle, Blaine catches sight of steam rising up in the wintry air, whorls unfurling like a whispered breath.

“What do you mean by that?” asks Kurt as he finishes his sip, cheeks and mouth rosy against the slate gray of the sky and surrounding architecture.

They’re only a couple of blocks away from his rehearsal studio; Blaine’s held off on asking his questions until now, wanting to enjoy as much of a careless morning as they can together, but with Christmas less than a week away, he finds himself wondering. Most of the couples he knows — not that there are many, but Wes and his wife tend to be Blaine’s standard for comparison — have already squared away their plans weeks ago. Being in shows means that neither Kurt nor Blaine have as much freedom to jet away to another city, but as far as Blaine knows, their practices have both been going smoothly.

There’s no reason to hold off the planning any longer, and Kurt’s evasiveness grates slightly against Blaine’s skin.

“I mean, have you made plans for it? I know that Christmas isn’t something that you’re particularly invested in thanks to your faith, but you’ve mentioned celebrating it, so I thought… maybe you’d like to do something with the couple of days we have off?” Blaine asks, shaking his head slightly and trying to fight the way his brows crease in worry.

“Oh, right — yeah, holidays have been a bit quiet for me since I moved out to New York,” Kurt answers, a quick smile passing over his features as he shakes his head in subtle dismissal. “I’d always look forward to it back home, because it generally meant that my dad could be at home, and we’d just celebrate together, the two of us. Well, until he got remarried, and then Carole and Finn wormed themselves into our elaborate Christmas dinners, and sometimes Rachel did as well after they got married. But there hasn’t really been any sort of pattern or tradition for it since I moved here.”

Almost feeling as though he shouldn’t be pressing further, Blaine’s chest feels tight. It’s possible that he’s reading too much into things, that Christmas really is mostly a nonissue for Kurt now that he lives separately from his family. Still, Blaine steps a little closer, bumping Kurt’s shoulder with his own, receiving another small smile at the contact.

It’s a far cry from the excitement he’d felt when they just started dating.

“So, you still haven’t answered my question,” Blaine points out, pulling a sip from his own cup. “Are you up for making some plans for our days off? It doesn’t have to be anything big like last time, maybe just a sleepover and classic Hollywood movie marathon? The paparazzi quiets down this time of year.”

“No they don’t,” Kurt retorts, pulling a face, nose wrinkled. “Blaine, I used to _live_ off of gossip columns and celebrity features in magazines. I know better.”

“Okay, fine,” says Blaine, rolling his eyes with a good-natured smile. “Maybe they don’t. Maybe I just want to spend the most romantic time of year with my boyfriend, especially with our schedules both free those couple of days. Is that so wrong?”

“No, no honey, of course not. It’s just that my dad might be flying over to surprise me this year, I think. He’s been evasive in our talks—”

“—guess that runs in the family.”

Kurt frowns, lips thinning before he pivots to step in front of Blaine, reaching out with a hand to tug lightly at Blaine’s sleeve. “Hey. None of that,” he says, the pout evident in his tone, even as Blaine stares briefly at the toes of his shoes. “I’ll set Christmas Day aside for you, okay? I mean, if my dad flies down, it’ll probably be for Christmas Eve anyway, so I can just have him hang around the apartment while we head out on a brief date. Or, or we could even spend the time together, the three of us, at my apartment. Mike’s heading back home, so it’ll be pretty private.”

Blaine grins at the idea, cautiously glancing up to meet Kurt’s gaze. “I like the sound of that, actually. Terrifying as it is to think about actually meeting your father and immediately plunging into a whole day spent with him,” Blaine muses.

“Oh, trust me, he’ll probably get along much more easily with you than he ever has with me — and I don’t mean that to complain about my dad, either,” breathes Kurt, pulling the both of them briefly into the entryway of his studio.

“I do like cars,” admits Blaine with a tilt of his head.

“It’ll be great. I’ll let you know later this week what’s up?” Kurt suggests, draining his coffee cup and tossing it into a nearby wastebasket.

“Sounds great,” Blaine murmurs, quickly leaning in for a press of cheek to cheek. “Kisses?”

“Bisous bisous,” replies Kurt, the fleeting brush of his lips against Blaine’s cheeks like a blessing pressed sweetly into his palm.

* * *

The scent of roses is barely noticeable over the chill of the air, so Blaine buries his nose in the blooms as he raises a hand to knock on Kurt’s door, deciding to let the bouquet hide him from immediate view. Christmas Eve rests lightly over the city, settling it into a frenzied quiet, murmurs and whispers from gathered families almost audible in the night. As Blaine hears footfalls drawing closer to the door, he smiles, nestling his cheeks against the soft petals.

He’s taken a risk, arriving hours earlier than planned, but with so much of the history built on surprises, Blaine finds it hard to discourage himself from a large display of his love and affection.

It might be just what they need.

When he doesn’t hear a single word upon the door opening, Blaine freezes in place, wondering if he’s accidentally presented himself to Kurt’s father. Offering a tentative smile, Blaine leans to the side, ducking out from behind the flowers sheepishly.

Only to find Mike standing there.

“Wow,” Mike says, eyes wide as he sighs heavily. “For a second, I thought you were Tina, and I was about to have some _words_ with you for making the trek out in this weather.”

Snorting, Blaine shakes his head, bouquet dropping slightly at his side as he shrugs his shoulders. “Way to ruin my grand, romantic entrance for me, Mike. There’s one Christmas greeting I won’t be able to get back,” he jokes, before feigning an affronted expression. “And I’ll have you know that even with her heels, Tina’s still shorter than yours truly.”

“Hey, I didn’t say being shorter was a _bad_ thing.”

“Mmm,” hums Blaine with a raise of his brow, then tilting his head to peek inside. “So… Kurt’s around, right? I’m surprised he hasn’t come to see what’s keeping you at the door.”

“Oh dude,” remarks Mike, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Didn’t he tell you? He already left for the bar; I thought the both of you were going to meet there.”

Feeling his skin prickle, blood draining from his face, Blaine shakes his head minutely. “The bar…?”

Mike hesitates, no doubt rethinking how much he ought to share, and Blaine curses himself for being such an open book. Kurt deserves his privacy as much as anything else, but there’s something about this that feels like deception already, like he’s been hiding deliberately from Blaine something that would hurt the both of them, were it to surface. And that’s enough for Blaine to hold his gaze with Mike, eyes pleading, the line of his lips straight.

“This is the first time you’re hearing about this, isn’t it?”

Blaine nods tersely.

Lips parted, Mike blinks and exhales deeply, rubbing at his forehead. “Look, I don’t know much about what’s going on, okay?”

“So something _is_ going on?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“—fine, I get it,” snaps Blaine, his skin feeling tight as he takes a couple of steps inside the apartment, Mike quickly stumbling to get out of the way. He places the large bouquet of roses atop their coffee room table, careful not to tread too much dirt into the apartment, before turning right around for the door again. “Just tell me, please, which bar he’s at. If it’s space he wants, I’ll give it to him, but if he’s — if he’s been hiding something from me, I think I deserve to know.”

Putting it into words, however vaguely, already leaves Blaine feeling sick.

“He mentioned something about the Candle Bar.”

His teeth grind briefly. “So he went to the only open gay bar in the Upper West Side. Great.”

Before his feet are wholly out the door, Mike says his name, paused right next to the door and wearing an unreadable expression. Conflicted, but without the same hint of shock as earlier.

“Blaine, whatever you do, at least hear him out.”

* * *

He runs until his lungs are screaming from the lack of air.

The scarf covering his neck alternates between covering his face and being tucked under; he’s drawing too much attention like this, stumbling through snow and sleet on Christmas Eve, but covering himself from view is too stifling, leaves him wondering if he’ll make it there in time, or if some part of him will burst between the seams before he’s ready. He has to remind himself of Mike’s words, a constant mantra coursing through his thoughts, that there’s an explanation for this. A reason for this. One that he’ll understand, provided he gives Kurt the time and opportunity.

Blaine refuses to push Kurt away before he’s ready.

Stepping inside, Blaine finds himself met with a rush of warm air and a darkened atmosphere, the interior of the bar aglow under reds and oranges. It’s dark enough that his arrival doesn’t draw too much attention, and Blaine decides to take a risk by tugging off his scarf, cringing as air hits the damp skin around his neck. It’s quieter here than Blaine expected, the music soft and comforting, mostly acoustics and the volume low enough that patrons all around the bar hold private conversations, no need to shout across a table.

Somehow, it isn’t a comfort that this bar seems like the very type of place that Kurt would enjoy. Blaine steps further inside, a bartender giving him a look, but not bothering to reach out when he already has customers waiting on drinks. Every sweep of hair has Blaine looking more closely, searching for a familiar profile, the straight sweep of a nose and wide lips usually curved in a smile, and he’s not sure whether or not he’s relieved when each proves to be a stranger. It forces him to step further back into the bar, the smack of a cue clear from a pool table in the back.

“—I’d’ve thought that this place would have been more packed on Christmas Eve; I mean, wouldn’t you expect the only gay bar in the neighborhood to be packed with lonely, single men this time of year?”

Blaine stops; Kurt’s voice is always unmistakable.

“You almost sound like you wish it were, Kurt. Isn’t that a little _scandalous?_ ”

“ _God_ , no, nothing like _that_. No, I just expected it to be a little easier to hide out, you know, behind the noise… not make such a _spectacle_ of myself just because I wanted to go home with a little bit of a buzz. Originally, my father was going to fly out, but with the weather…”

The words fade away then, fade into indistinguishable noise. It’s because he doesn’t want to listen. Once damned is enough. Still, Blaine can’t help but turn towards the pair of voices, his gaze finding Kurt easily with a bit of direction, his legs stretched out lazily over the bench of a booth and empty shot glasses lined up in front of him on the table. Across from him is seated a young man, younger than either of them, Blaine thinks — smaller in stature, but _bright_ and enthused nonetheless, blonde hair tucked underneath a knit cap and glasses heavy as they sneak down the bridge of his nose.

Slowly, he walks towards them, dizzy and with a steady pounding in his ears.

“Kurt?”

But he can hear his own voice through that, and it comes out betrayed, confused, and strangely pleading in spite of the temptation to turn right out and head out into the street.

When Kurt glances up, it isn't with guilt so much as surprise.

“Blaine! …what are you doing here?” Kurt asks, his eyes wide and somehow glassy, their gaze unfocused and losing the clarity that Blaine loves most about them. His cheeks are flushed, and even that loses its charm underneath the warm lights of the bar. “I didn’t think you’d ever step foot inside a place like this.”

Everything comes across red.

“What am I doing here?” Blaine asks, and he notices the blond recoiling, slipping further inside the seat. It’s not an invitation, but still Blaine slides in, avoiding the searching gazes of the other customers in the room. “Well, I stopped by your apartment, thought I’d wish you a happy Christmas Eve and maybe spend a little more time with you than we thought we’d get. Except Mike told me that I must have just missed you, and he ended up letting me know that you were here.”

Raising both brows, Kurt shakes his head, lifting his glass — just ice water, Blaine thinks — and sipping from the straw. “You know you could’ve called—”

A slur stretches Kurt’s voice, and Blaine can’t stand to listen to it, hands gripping at the edge of the table as he interrupts with a hiss. “And what, get in the way of your _date_ here?”

Kurt stares.

“No, don’t mind me. Clearly, you found someone else you’d rather spend the holidays with, and I should be happy for you.” About to protest, Blaine raises a hand before Kurt can interject, jaw locking when he notices the man to his side shifting again, trying to stammer through a word or two. “Just, next time, I might appreciate a little heads-up before I spend my day off trying to make my way over here without drawing unwanted attention.”

“Blaine, that’s why I didn’t ask you here—”

Standing quickly to his feet, Blaine holds both hands up, as though trying to block all other words for a moment as he centers himself — his balance compromised, his head still swimming in shock — and turns on his heel to leave. There are steps that trail after him, uneven, punctuated with his name, and it’s never before sounded so much like a plea.

But he steps out into the street anyway, quickly drawing in a breath that chills him to the core before he seats himself up on the raised sidewalk, staring out at the quiet blanket of white that covers the city.

“ _Blaine_.”

He doesn’t answer, but neither does he move. The world still seems to, turning as he notices Kurt’s boots next to his own, and feels the slump of a body hovering near his own, not yet leaning, not yet needing.

“I really don’t want to listen to this right now,” he warns.

“Well, maybe your want doesn’t override my need,” Kurt says, the waver in his voice clear, and as Blaine tries to turn his head away, he feels a pair of hands pressing to either line of his jaw, turning his face gently until their eyes meet. “Do you really trust me so little that you won’t hear me out on this? After _everything_ we’ve already been through?”

Inhale.

“You were out with another guy. On _Christmas Eve_. What can you say to change that? I wanted us to spend the holidays together.”

“There’s a reason why I didn’t promise you both days, Blaine,” Kurt says, shaking his head, holding more firmly when Blaine tries to pull away. “And it’s not because I didn’t want to spend time with you, and it’s not because I wanted to spend time with anyone else more than I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Then stop telling me what it _isn’t_ , and just… tell me what it was. Before I’m too afraid to ask.”

Kurt squeezes his eyes tightly shut, leaning forward until he rests the center of his forehead against the curve of Blaine’s shoulder, hands dropping, but one arm still slung across Blaine’s chest and hooking over the crook of his opposite elbow. He smells of alcohol, Blaine can see now, as if that line of glasses in the bar weren’t enough indication. The scent is sharp on Kurt’s clothing.

“I just needed someone to talk to.”

“You could have talked to me.”

Blaine feels Kurt shaking his head, shifting Blaine’s whole body with the force of it. His own eyes are trained across the street, watching as flakes flutter in the distance, none close enough to fall on either of them as they sit on the curb.

“No, Blaine, I couldn’t have. I couldn’t make myself talk to you about this when both of us are already buckling under the pressure, I couldn’t… couldn’t exhaust my _partner_ with this. And not when,” Kurt says, his voice thin and cracking like ice. “Not when you’re new to this, too. Not when I told you to take this job, thinking that I could handle it well. Blaine, it’s not a _bad_ thing that I turned to someone for _support_ —”

“—it feels like it,” says Blaine, his brows knitting painfully as he glances down, raising his shoulder to encourage Kurt to look up. Kurt doesn’t. “Kurt, we knew that hiding our relationship was going to be tough, and you’ve known longer than I have what it’s like to have people constantly asking after your personal life, your sexuality, like that should matter in this industry.”

“It shouldn’t,” whispers Kurt.

“I know,” Blaine interjects, his voice louder, sure. “But it we can’t even be honest with each other when we’re having a hard time, then, then it’s not worth it. Then what’s the _point?_ ”

“The point is that I love you.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Blaine shifts until he’s able to wrap an arm solidly around Kurt’s shoulders, feeling them tremble for several minutes before their movement evens out, along with the cadence of Kurt’s breathing. Remarkably, the streets in front of them remain mostly deserted, a few vehicles passing by with a glimpse of happy families piled inside. Only when Kurt starts to shiver in Blaine’s hold does he finally tug out his phone for a ride.

Though he’d rather stay just like this, music filtering faintly around them from inside the bar.

* * *

 **Blaine (7:38)**  
You’re probably sleeping in bed by now, but I hope our plans are still on for tomorrow.  
I love you.

**Kurt (12:00)**  
Merry Christmas, Blaine. I love you too.

_Incoming call from Blaine Anderson._


	23. Act XXIII: Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is Vienna Teng's piece, "[ **Eric's Song**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axgoppZ_7ic)."

**Act XXIII: Kurt**

“Hello, stranger,” Rachel chirps as she opens her front door, the scent of marinara sauce immediately filtering through into the hall outside. “Glad that you were _finally_ able to spare time for a visit.”

Eyes narrowing, Kurt’s lips betray him only slightly as he reaches out, fingers hovering a couple of inches over Rachel’s mouth and pinching the air. “Still way too soon to pretend that a freer schedule was the impetus for _this_ détente,” he informs her as he steps inside, shivering at the change in temperature. “I already told you what’s held me up these past few weeks, and rehearsals weren’t it.”

Reaching over his shoulders to help Kurt shrug off his heavy woolen coat, Rachel rolls her eyes. “Well, pardon me for wanting to work a little levity into the situation,” she says, though the tone of her voice softens. “You’ve been gone so long that I feel like I’ve been missing half of myself. How am I supposed to get by without my best friend? Or, more importantly, why didn’t you _come_ to me while you were stressed? You complain about how I’m never there for you, but I can’t exactly butt in if you never let me know what’s wrong.”

“Can we not rehash this conversation right now?” sighs Kurt, careful not to drop the cardboard box under his arm before he reaches out to set it on Rachel’s dining table, the sweet smell of pastry already wafting through. “I came here to relax and catch up, not to discuss my communication skills for the umpteenth time.”

“Fine,” huffs Rachel as she hangs Kurt’s coat, then brushes her hands off before heading back into the kitchen. “But we’re not done with this talk, for your information. We can put it on the backburner until our respective shows are over.”

“Speaking of which, how is that going?” Kurt slips into the kitchen, helping Rachel gather plates and silverware, holding them out as Rachel spoons pasta onto both.

“Oh, it’s going fine,” Rachel replies with a tilt of her head, raising her wooden spoon to taste before ladling the marinara atop the pasta. “Ever since you and Blaine had that talk, he’s calmed down at practice. All the buzz surrounding the both of us has died down, too — I guess neither of us is scandalous enough to merit the A-list spotlight in gossip. I’m finding that I’ve regained my appreciation for being able to take Finn out in the city without people speculating on my potential infidelity. I may have a penchant for the dramatic, but it doesn’t extend quite that far.”

Raising both brows and smiling, Kurt carries both plates out into the dining room, nudging the placemats into position with his elbows before setting their dishes down with a tap. “I’m glad things worked out,” he remarks, tugging a few paper napkins out for each of them. “Had you asked me what my predictions were going into this whole mess, I’m not sure they would have been half as positive. You saw what happened to Kristen Stewart. Granted, in this case you would have been wrecking your _own_ home, but still. The world could have been disturbingly eager to take you down.”

“You sound like Wes.” With a bowl of salad carefully propped against her hip and a large carafe of water in hand, Rachel joins Kurt in the room, seating herself down with a brief sigh. “As it turns out, it was wisest simply not to address any of it. This time. The show still benefits from having one of the top pop icons in a lead role, I still get to make my first Broadway splash… things are good.”

Gradually, Kurt lowers his gaze back to the grain of the table, sitting down neatly and spreading a napkin flat over his lap. Compared to a few weeks ago, Rachel sounds far more collected, the tone of her voice the softest it’s been in years.

Even as they had one another to hold onto, adjusting to the big city was never easy for either of them. The noise and chaos of the city was always easy to watch in movies, not only known but sought after by two teenagers who’d grown up in their sleepy town, nestled away in the Midwest. Each fell back on a crutch — Rachel, on the love she received from Finn, however strained it could be. And Kurt, on the newfound respect he gained for his art, hours whiling away fast in the dance studio. Sharing a dream with one’s best friend has never been easy. Still isn’t, Kurt has to admit.

He smiles softly up at Rachel, pleased with her success, and the unintentional hand he’d had in leading her there.

The sun’s long fallen down past the horizon, but its warmth still slips into the apartment, soft in hues of pink and gold.

“How are things with Finn?”

He’s often avoided asking in the past, never wanting to intrude on matters that Kurt could only faintly understand at best. But, however smaller the physical distance might be between himself and Blaine, these days still feel like a constant separation. Reaching through fog.

Maybe Rachel catches a glimpse of that in his eyes; her expression softens, hand reaching out to rest over his and squeezing faintly. “They’re good,” she admits with a nod. “I think I started to resent him for never being there when I felt like I needed him the most. But we had a good talk, and I realized that I’m not always the easiest person to console. Having this show, it changes everything, it’s a boost of confidence that I can’t get from reassurances alone.”

Kurt smiles. “That makes sense.”

“We’ve actually started looking at options for him to find work out here. Something more hands-on, and less lofty like I’d been suggesting before. Because he’s really not much of an actor,” admits Rachel with a soft huff of laughter. “With your father’s strong recommendation, we’re actually hoping that he’ll be admitted to the Mechanics Institute over on West 44th Street. It’s tuition-free; it’s a technical school; and it has a strong alumni base, too.”

Blinking in surprise, Kurt takes a slight breath, busying himself quickly with scooping up some of his pasta. “Rachel, that sounds perfect for the both of you.”

Smiling demurely, Rachel ducks her head. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it earlier, honestly. It’s not like there aren’t enough cars in New York to require a mechanic’s help,” she points out, tongue in cheek. “I guess we were just so caught up in all the drama that we never stopped to think things fully through. It’ll be hard for a while, financially, but Burt said he’d lend us some money, and we obviously have every intention of paying it back.”

“If you don’t, I’ll come after you, too,” jokes Kurt with a clipped nod. “That money’s eventually supposed to come my way, you know.”

“ _Kurt!_ ”

“Kidding, I’m kidding.”

The both of them settle into soft laughter, little more than the scrape of forks against plates and a soft soundtrack in the background breaking the silence.

“So… do I even dare ask?” Rachel finally asks, fork poised in front of her mouth. “About how things are between you and Blaine?”

They flinch when Kurt’s fork grinds against the surface of the plate, Kurt murmuring his apologies before he sets the fork down, hands folded neatly atop the table as he tilts his head, considering his words.

“We’re fine, I think. Things are still a little strained between us after the bar incident, but I think he believes that I didn’t do anything there.”

“You didn’t, right?”

“ _No_ , Rachel.” Kurt bristles, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “All that I did with Chandler was talk about this whole situation. I never had any intention of turning to him for more than a listening ear. But… Blaine has a point that I should probably think about confiding in him once in a while. So I wanted to do something to apologize, show him that I’m still _invested_ in this relationship. More than anything, I want us to work. Maybe that’s foolish—”

“It’s not foolish, Kurt,” interrupts Rachel, reaching out for his hand again. “It’s what happens when you’re in love.”

Glancing briefly over her person, Kurt breaks into a crooked smile, resting his cheek in the spread of his palm. “When did you get so knowledgeable about love, anyway?”

“You may be marginally more familiar with the romantic classics than I am, Kurt, but I still have ten times your experience in relationships under my belt,” Rachel chirps, patting his hand before digging her fork into the pasta again. “Trust the woman who’s married, Kurt.”

Letting out a soft breath, Kurt shakes his head slightly, chin still nestled against his palm. “But they’re still classics for a reason, Rach.”

* * *

While he’s never been the biggest fan of the cold, there’s something about the temperature that seems to draw silence easily from the city. As his breath fogs in the air, Kurt stares out from the roof of his apartment building, the lights on the streets distant and the glow around them easy to spot, like fireflies floating about in the nighttime sky. No one ever comes up to the roof at this time of year. The floor is too slick, the snow quick to melt into slush, but it’s one of those opportune nights when the flakes are falling heavy and the majority of city dwellers still off at work.

Kurt lingers only a moment by the side of the roof, then slowly makes his way back to the center of the building, stepping carefully over rough concrete as he digs little holes in the snow. Lights up a few candles, watching them flicker in a close approximation of the street below, not quite steady, but ever constant.

In the process, he learns that matches aren’t as romantic as movies make them seem. Hopefully, no one will look too closely at the broken bits of charred wood scattered all over the snow, quickly sinking beneath the layers of cold.

Behind him, Kurt hears the door open, and he glances up suddenly, heart pounding.

“Kurt?”

Cheeks pink and breath coming quick, Blaine steps out of the stairwell tentatively, eyes widening as they fall on the lit candles, no set pattern to their placement.

“Glad to see that you made it,” murmurs Kurt, stepping over and reaching both hands out to Blaine to help him navigate around the few patches of ice stretched over the floor. “I know I gave you pretty last-minute notice, but you don’t have a lot of nights like this one in a year. Especially when two-thirds of them are inaccessible due to group rehearsals.”

Although Kurt suspects that Blaine doesn’t quite understand yet why he’s brought them both to the roof, Blaine still smiles widely at the comment, gaze flickering from Kurt’s eyes and back to the candles; that’s when Kurt knows it was the right choice.

“Kurt, this is _beautiful_ , but I don’t understand. Did I miss one of our monthiversaries? Am I forgetting someone’s birthday, did I forget that we rescheduled date night?” Before Kurt has a change to respond, Blaine shakes his head, arms weaving around Kurt’s waist and tugging him slightly closer. “You must have spent so much time on this, and I haven’t prepared anything for you.”

“It was meant to be a surprise,” reassures Kurt, resting his hands atop Blaine’s shoulders and massaging into them. “The backdrop to the surprise, anyway. Don’t worry, you haven’t forgotten any occasion. You’re a very good boyfriend, where dates are concerned.”

Blaine smiles, bashful. Kurt wishes he knew whether the flush on Blaine’s cheeks is caused by the cold, or if he’s just pleased by this.

A classic romantic gesture.

“I wanted to invite you out here so that we could talk more about… that night.” Watching Blaine’s expression sober, Kurt shakes his head softly, gaze dropping. “I know that neither of us really _wants_ to talk about what happened, and I think that’s okay. I’m not under the impression that you haven’t forgiven me or are holding a grudge, but things feel different between the both of us, don’t they? Like we’re a little bit afraid, when I can’t remember us ever being afraid before.”

“Courage, right?”

Kurt smiles. “Right.”

Feeling hands quietly pressing down against his waist, Kurt peeks up again, breathing in softly when he catches the look on Blaine’s face, watchful and reverent.

“But, the more I thought about what it’d mean to talk about this with you, the more I felt that I probably couldn’t come up with the right words on my own. I mean, my verbal skills are pretty impressive, and I can talk circles around anyone we know in no fewer than three languages, but...” He grins as Blaine laughs, biting briefly down on his lower lip and feeling it tingle under the pressure. “They never really taught us how to talk about something like this in school, did they? Especially not _us_.”

He feels the warmth of a hand hovering close to his jaw before raising his own to press Blaine’s hand to his cheek.

“Fortunately, songs sometimes do the work for us,” Kurt murmurs, squeezing Blaine’s hand once before starting to step backwards on the roof, careful to hold his arms out for balance. “And I think I remember _someone_ really liking the clarity of my voice on stage.”

“Oh, _do_ you?” teases Blaine, trailing along a few steps behind.

Stepping forward just enough to smack Blaine’s arm with his scarf, Kurt chuckles as he steps backward, stuffing both hands in his pockets and leaning his weight from side to side, feeling out the moment.

“ _Strange how you know inside me; I measure the time and I stand amazed,_ ” Kurt sings, barely above a hush. “ _Strange how I know inside you; my hand is outstretched toward the damp of the haze._ ”

There’s no hint of recognition on Blaine’s face as he listens to the song. Smiling faintly, Kurt tugs his scarf up higher, wrapping it around the tip of his chin.

“ _And of course I forgive, I’ve seen how you live, like a phoenix you rise from the ashes. You pick up the pieces and the ghosts in the attic; they never quite leave._ ”

His voice threatens to quaver. Singing directly to someone is, in Kurt’s opinion, as intimate as it gets. A shared experience that’s all about inflection, all about reading between the detailed lines, pulling from someone else’s words an experience somehow still connected to the relationship.

“ _And of course I forgive, you’ve seen how I live, I’ve got darkness and fears to appease. My voices and analogies, ambitions like ribbons worn bright on my sleeve._ ”

He doesn’t move when Blaine steps forward, spurred by Kurt’s voice fading in the night. Every word unfurls in the air, then vanishes in the cold.

“ _Strange how we know each other,_ ” Kurt murmurs. “ _Strange how I fit into you; there’s a distance erased with the greatest of ease. Strange how you fit into me; a gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs._ ”

They’re standing close enough now that Blaine’s arms wind around Kurt’s waist again, a swell of warmth spilling over in Kurt’s chest and heart pounding, _aching_ as he feels their foreheads press together, every breath shared, as though Blaine tries to take every word in for himself. Not letting a single one escape.

“ _And with each passing day, the stories we say draw us tighter into our addiction. Confirm our conviction that some kind of miracle passed on our heads,_ ” sings Kurt, louder now, feeling the lyrics reverberate not only through his chest but against Blaine’s. Hands clutching at the fabric of his coat. “ _And how I am sure like never before of my reasons for defying reason. Embracing the seasons, we dance through the colors both followed and led._ ”

Tilting his head, Blaine leans forward to press his lips softly against Kurt’s own. Kurt laughs, and maybe it breaks the moment, but the beat of his heart keeps the pace of the song, a few extra rests as he lets his arms slip around Blaine’s neck, twining, keeping him trapped there in the embrace.

“ _Strange how we fit each other. Strange how certain the journey; time unfolds the petals for our eyes to see. Strange how this journey’s hurting in ways we accept as part of fate’s decree._ ”

Blaine kisses his cheek. Kurt closes his eyes, feeling lips brush in that delicate span of skin right above his cheekbone.

“ _So we just hold on fast, acknowledge the past as lessons exquisitely crafted, painstakingly drafted to carve us as instruments that play the music of life._ ” Kurt turns his head, lips brushing against the curve of Blaine’s nose, sharing the air between them, feeling Blaine’s exhales fall soft against his mouth. “ _For we don't realize our faith in the prize unless it’s been somehow elusive._ ”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers, the name more felt than heard.

“ _How swiftly we choose it — the sacred simplicity of you at my side._ ”

Blaine doesn’t ask after the meaning of the song; even if he did, Kurt’s not sure that he’d be any more capable of parsing it out in words, the tug that he feels between the two of them, a chain latched onto his heart, comforting with proximity but aching upon every separation. They’re strong, Kurt believes, but moments of weakness no longer serve either of them when held close like a secret.

They’re stronger _together_.

Judging by the way Blaine holds him tight, breath falling against the side of Kurt’s neck, he understands.

* * *

On the stage, very little can touch Kurt. Other people’s words and comments are held at a distance, roll off of his back like water on oil, only absorbed to help his craft and never to shape his identity. But as he slides his key into the lock with Blaine’s arms wrapped neatly around his waist, Kurt feels words whispered against his back, hardly heard but felt as much as a brand. He laughs, fingers fumbling and keys jangling in his distraction, Blaine’s lips tickling as they brush against the nape of his neck.

“What if someone spots us out here?” whispers Kurt, not daring to waste precious seconds on glancing over his shoulder as he finally manages to turn the key, hearing the click of the lock as it slides open.

“Then we’ll be forced to deal with the consequences,” murmurs Blaine in return, arching as he presses himself against Kurt’s back. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m crazy about you. I _love_ you.”

They stumble into the apartment together, a tangle of limbs as Kurt turns around in Blaine’s arms, looping his own around Blaine’s shoulders and weaving his fingers through Blaine’s unruly curls. Kurt tugs on the thick forelocks until Blaine bows, their foreheads meeting with a slight knock. Before either of them can offer an apology, their lips meet, sealing off any words, licking and pressing roughly as their feet move in tandem, a stumble or two resulting in a faint noise of surprise.

Even inside, the quiet of the suite keeps their voices hushed, every murmur like an imparted secret. Slipping past the light that filters out of Mike’s room, they slip into the privacy of Kurt’s, just four walls around the both of them and nothing else for Kurt to focus on but the honeyed color of Blaine’s eyes, wide and affectionate. In the moment, Kurt feels naked even under layers of fabric, song and confessions alike stripping him bare.

When his gaze lifts off the floor again, Kurt catches the fade of a smile and fingers on his shoulders as the pair of them step back. Blunt nails dig through the fabric of his shirt, sneaking underneath the buttons and slipping them free. His calves bump against the side of his mattress, throwing off Kurt’s balance as he drops down onto his bed with a bounce. Clothes lay scattered over Kurt’s sheets, trousers pooling around his feet; Blaine brushes the side of his foot down along Kurt’s calf, catching on a pant leg and kicking it aside.

They sink onto the mattress, Blaine chasing after the full swell of Kurt’s lower lip, worrying it until Kurt can feel it turn red and hot under the touch. He closes his eyes, fixated on feel, sensation — the brush of Blaine’s thigh between his legs, his own hips arching in response to the contact. His hands reach over Blaine’s shoulders, groping for purchase, scratching along the line of his spine. More whispers weave through the room as they drop their clothes to the floor, the pile a mess, reflecting the emotions Kurt feels fluttering in his chest. Chaos threatening to trip the both of them.

Hands take the place of questions, soft inquiries clear in the brush of a palm over Kurt’s abdomen, then against the line of coarse hair stretching down beneath his navel. Every shift of their bodies exposes a little more skin, sending a shiver down Kurt’s spine as his hands reach over to drag over the broad expanse of Blaine’s back, tugging with need.

Only seconds later does he notice Blaine’s labored breath, gasping when the weight of his hips pins Kurt down against the bed.

“Kurt, can I?”

Fingers pressing hard against the cut of Blaine’s hips, Kurt arches his back, seeking friction with a soft whimper. He feels feverish, his skin too tight and flushed. “Y-yeah. God, _Blaine_.”

While messy kisses press along the side of Kurt’s neck, Blaine buries his face under the straight line of Kurt’s jaw, breathing in and out with a murmur. “I want to make love to you,” Blaine says, his tone rough and strained. “Just… want to feel all of you.”

Blaine draws a hand further up along the soft, sensitive skin of Kurt’s inner thigh, cupping him with a soft squeeze and capturing Kurt’s next moan with a kiss. Constantly, the warmth of Blaine’s fingers continues to brush over Kurt’s skin, motions smooth and tracing vague curves, unpredictable but soothing as they coax Kurt back down on the bed with a sigh. In the faint light of the room, the hue of Blaine’s skin comes out beautifully, gold against the pale stretch of Kurt’s hand as it traces up the straight line of Blaine’s spine, muscles shifting under the touch. Every traced fingertip is its own declaration of love, silent and sweeping.

Their eyes meet, crinkling with fleeting smiles.

The urgency in their actions varies at intervals — a desperate grab here, lips whispering against skin there, until Kurt’s hard against Blaine’s belly and dizzy from the heat rising in his cheeks, hips trying for a rhythm that never quite sets. A rough rock of his pelvis sends arousal spiking into his abdomen, sudden and bright as the drag of his nails against Blaine’s back. Blaine gasps, lashes falling briefly as the heel of his palm skitters against the pursed fabric of Kurt’s sheets.

“Oh god,” he mutters, burying his face quickly against the side of Kurt’s neck, and Kurt swears that the thrum of Blaine’s voice in his throat feels like a purr that vibrates from the chest, spilling outward.

“I bought — they’re in the drawer,” stammers Kurt, squirming, but his hands are quickly thrown out over Blaine’s back, inhibiting movement as they reach for the curve of his ass, kneading at warmth and muscle.

“Are you going to let me get all the way there?”

“Maybe not,” Kurt breathes, tilting his head until his breaths fan out and back against the shell of Blaine’s ear. Every exhale causes Blaine to shake in his arms, not quite delicate, but on edge all the same. Gaze dropping down to Blaine’s skin, Kurt catches the faint sheen of it in the light, perspiration catching a glow and pulling it in close. “But I should.”

“Probably,” nods Blaine with a laugh, though his lips betray him, never quite pressing closed. Every part of him seems to be unraveling, curls plastered against his forehead, breath stuttering through his teeth, skin flushed down to the center of his chest. “If you want to be thoroughly fucked tonight, that is.”

“Must you word it so crudely?”

The tip of Blaine’s nose traces along the curve of Kurt’s cheek, down along the line of his jaw, until Blaine’s lips wrap around the delicate skin underneath Kurt’s chin, pressed close to his throat. “Doesn’t answer my question,” growls Blaine, the warmth of his palm wrapping suddenly around Kurt’s erection, indulging in a slow, gradual pull.

Kurt’s mind goes blank.

“Yes,” he whispers, chest rising and falling, arms going slack, quickly bending at the elbow and hooking around Blaine’s neck. “God, _yes_ , yes.”

He doesn’t remember what he’s agreeing to. Blaine, perhaps. Always Blaine.

Their bodies shift as Blaine disentangles himself to reach out for Kurt’s nightstand, the drawer squeaking as it rolls open, making way for a flutter of paper and a few knocks as Blaine searches roughly through its contents. Skin abuzz, Kurt lets his arms fall back against the mattress, curling under his head as he watches Blaine’s progress with wide eyes. Blaine looks determined, but his movements trip up all the same, impatience thrumming and obvious even from a distance.

“Need any help?”

“Shut up.”

As though spurred by Kurt’s teasing, Blaine pulls back triumphantly, packets of lube and condoms held tight in his palm as he drops them onto the bed, a few colors scattering over the bed sheets. It’s far from smooth, but Kurt laughs all the more for it, delighted as he runs a hand down the smooth line of Blaine’s cheek, chest swelling when the action earns a soft smile in return.

It’s never as elegant as it is in the books, Kurt’s discovered. Blaine trips up a few more times before they continue, weight propped up on a forearm as he struggles to rip open any of the few condom packets he’s collected. “I hope you don’t mind green,” he remarks when one finally crinkles with his success, and as Kurt laughs, the lubricant nearly causes the small ring to slip from Blaine’s grasp.

“Oooh, does it glow in the dark, you think?”

“I don’t know! _You_ bought them,” teases Blaine, coughing in laughter as he presses his face against Kurt’s cheek, littering it with kisses. Even as he keeps his lips trailing close, Kurt can feel the shift of Blaine’s arms as he quickly works with a packet of lube, taking time to warm it up with his fingers. “Are you telling me that you don’t even take the time to pick the condoms that are best for you? Kurt, you are worth so much more than that.”

Snorting, Kurt runs his hands down Blaine’s sides, shaking his head until their noses nuzzle together. “If you’re expecting me to stay in a drugstore even a second longer than necessary at the risk of exposing my sex life to strangers, then you’ll be disappointed.” With a sigh, he purses his lips for a kiss, inhaling sharply when he feels Blaine’s fingers teasing him below, running along the crease of his ass, slick and wet. “But I checked for size.”

Huffing a low growl of amusement, Blaine nips down the line of Kurt’s jaw with his teeth. “Of course you did,” he murmurs. “Though I didn’t think I’d see the day when you decided to prioritize something above fashion.”

“Aren’t you glad I did?”

“Mmm.”

Blaine mouths freely by the side of Kurt’s neck, his breath hot and damp against sensitive skin as Kurt lifts his hips slightly, finding the most comfortable position. He can feel Blaine’s hand brush over the cut of his hip, slow and reassuring, constant and repetitive motions easing Kurt into the moment. No step is taken without permission granted, sometimes with a kiss against Blaine’s temple, sometimes in whispers — and in the latter, Kurt can always feel the shiver through Blaine’s body, movements sometimes hesitant, but firm.

There’s no sense of completion when Kurt feels the first finger breach. He’s never felt as though they’re two halves becoming whole, never felt the need for both of them to meld into a single person. The magic in this moment has always been able two people fitting around one another, puzzle pieces slotting into place, strengths complementing each other. Kurt remains acutely aware of the palm holding him down, in the surety that Blaine lends him — he returns it with soft gasps, parted lips awash in the sheer pleasure of the moment, every night shared another learning experience towards a relationship that’s still so new and far from explored.

“ _Kurt_.”

“God, _yes_.”

Time is lost between them as the minutes pass. Whatever light passes through the shades remains constant in the city that never sleeps, an occasional car rushing past, the wind mirroring the rush in Kurt’s heart. Slow, indulgent kisses are what he focuses on most, even as Blaine’s fingers explore, occasionally brushing over nerves and lighting them white hot. Only when Blaine’s hand starts to tremble with impatience, his cock pressed hard against the cut of Kurt’s hip, does Kurt open his eyes fully at last, catching dark pupils blown and a flush spread from cheek to cheek.

And maybe he’s wearing too much of his heart on his sleeve, because Blaine doesn’t need to ask this time, pressing himself up against Kurt, the touch teasing yet sure.

Kurt’s always had an abundance of words to share. Blaine, he’s found, often has too few.

But the brush of hands over skin is all they need now, sheets sliding down Blaine’s back in a hush as they fall into frenzied movement, clutching and grabbing for something far from tangible. Kurt’s hips grind down, but Blaine rushes up to meet him, skin slapping against skin as their breaths mingle in the dark, hot and stifling.

Blaine falls first, a deep moan vibrating against Kurt’s throat as he hides himself from view, fingers pressing deeply in the space just above Kurt’s hips, hips jolting and the movement smooth in its last moments. Tempted though Kurt is to shift to the side, catch Blaine’s climax in full, he doesn’t have the time before Blaine’s hand wraps hot and sure around his cock, jerking him quickly, uneven.

“ _Blaine_ ,” he gasps, spine arching, nails dragging harshly down from the curve of Blaine’s shoulders and along the center of his back.

He loses himself in the tight grasp of Blaine’s hands.


	24. Act XXIV: Wes

Being in the entertainment industry ages people. The very moment that art finds itself needing to cater to the whimsies and delight of a rapt audience is when the ease falls away; when performers are addressing the public rather than acting for themselves, spontaneity is no longer fully rewarded. In some ways, Wes loves his work because it brings him closer to people, and it requires a close attention to the way that the public works and congregates. Being able to help another person bring smiles to the faces of millions is empowering on many levels.

But it also puts his clients in shoes that people aren’t necessarily designed to wear. In the years that Wes has worked as a business manager, he’s learned how to expose certain facets of an artist’s identity and how to cast a shadow over the rest. He’s also watched people change over the course of such a makeover, truly adjusting themselves to the mold that they’re given, until the public and private images almost completely overlap.

It used to be that he could wave that off as the effect of fame. Not until Blaine’s booming success and their background as friends has Wes been forced to reevaluate what he does on a daily basis. Sometimes he regrets agreeing to work with someone he’s close to, less because of the added burden on his own shoulders, and more because there are times when his interests as a manager directly conflict with those that come with being a friend. When he compares the work that he’s done with all of his clients, Blaine stands out — and not merely because of his heightened success.

With Blaine’s work being largely tied around theater and rehearsal this winter, it’s the slowest holiday season Wes has enjoyed in years. Usually, his schedule around the new year is the opposite of his wife’s, her having time off from teaching and Wes hopping on jets to fly around on tours. It’s not always the typical work of a manager, but Blaine is just prone enough to acting on impulse that Wes tags along in case he needs some nudging from someone other than his publicist. But this past month, most of Wes’ time has been spent between his apartment and the office, snow falling past his windows and floating on uneven currents, seemingly slowing the passage of time.

Carrying a pair of mugs into his living room, Wes sinks down among sofa cushions, holding one out to Nikki, who quickly takes advantage of the moment to lay her head on his shoulder.

“Hot chocolate? I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this,” she teases, smile widening as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Think of it as an early apology,” he replies with a slight wrinkle of his brow. “Blaine just called and he’s on his way to the apartment. By the sound of his voice, this talk may take a while.”

Pressing her lips together, Nikki shakes her head, hands cradling the warmth of her mug. “So you’re being a good friend _and_ doing your job in one fell swoop. Tell me again why you’re apologizing?”

“Because it’s your last day off before school starts again, and I know you were looking forward to watching _Field of Dreams_ tonight,” explains Wes before sighing, resting his mug carefully against his knee. “As for doing it all, I actually feel like being a manager and being a good friend are mutually exclusive these days.”

As she sips at her drink, Nikki quickly shakes her head, wagging a finger before pulling back. “No, they’re not mutually exclusive. You just don’t have the luxury of blindly supporting someone’s decisions. You’re forcing Blaine to think a little more, and that’s good for him, even if he may not always realize it,” she points out. “But yes, you’ll owe me a couple of Red Sox tickets for backing out of our movie date.”

“That can be arranged,” nods Wes as he presses another kiss to her cheek, looping his arm around to rub at her shoulder. “So does this mean that I can count on you to be there for my talk with Blaine?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not touching your job with a ten foot pole,” she laughs, turning her head to press her nose against his cheek. “But I wouldn’t be much help anyway, since I’m completely incapable of denying that kid anything he wants.”

“It’s true. Sometimes I think you’re more attracted to him than you are to me.”

“Aww, is someone jealous?”

Meeting her gaze, Wes chuckles briefly before pressing his forehead to hers. “No. I think I have the better end of the deal.”

* * *

The snow stops falling by the time Blaine arrives at the door, the quiet of the city already replaced by the sound of plows driving through snow. Somehow, the tumult matches the expression Blaine wears as he steps into the apartment, shoulders squared and jaw not quite set. Wes is afraid to break into conversation first, simply closing the door behind them with a soft click as he reaches his hands out for Blaine’s coat, which gets shrugged off with little care or thought before Wes hangs it carefully on the coat rack by the entrance.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Blaine asks, just before Wes has worked up the nerve to talk.

Wes smiles.

“I was hoping that you would give me some direction,” he replies, waving the both of them over to the living room. To the side, a small electric fireplace flickers, filling the space with warmth, but Wes pauses before taking a seat on the sofa, even as Blaine plops down beside him. “Would you like something to drink?”

“If I say scotch, neat, will you judge me?”

“You can’t really go wrong with Patrick Stewart, even if I’m more partial to Xavier than Picard,” Wes says with a smile, quietly making his way over to the liquor cabinet, bottles clinking as he digs to the back of the shelf for the stronger spirits.

A mischievous grin spreads across Blaine’s face, dimple surfacing on his cheek. “I like them both, and I’m flattered that you still remember something from that _The Next Generation_ marathon we had back at Dalton. I didn’t think it was your type of thing.”

Pouring a couple shots’ worth into each glass, Wes returns with a pair, holding it out silently to Blaine and waiting for him to take it in hand before sitting down. “It wasn’t,” he admits. “But you know, when you had just transferred to Dalton, I couldn’t read a single one of your emotions. I couldn’t easily determine what made you happy, what upset you… all that I knew was that you felt safer at our school than where you attended previously. Hearing you eventually drop hints about what you did outside of school and the Warblers was nice. I wanted to encourage it.”

“By making the entire group sit together for the whole seven seasons over the course of a month?”

Wes chuckles, pressing the rim of the glass briefly against his cheek, cool to the touch. As he watches, Blaine takes a sip of his scotch — a small one, as far as Wes can tell. Maybe Blaine’s already feeling better than a moment ago.

Talking usually does that for him, Wes has found.

“We knew that there was a lot of potential in a guy like you. You have a great range, you’re charismatic, and your type of enthusiasm works for a wide audience. You’re fun enough to capture the younger demographic, but charming enough for the older adults as well.” Wes’ grin widens as he watches Blaine duck his head humbly, cheeks already flushing from the praise. “And you were great for getting spirits up on the team. Of all the people I knew who wanted to go into this business, I’m not surprised that you were the one who broke through — letting that slip by would have been the greatest mistake I made on the council.”

Blaine doesn’t respond at first, glancing ahead intently before kicking back another sip of his drink, deeper than before, even as his lips remain curved faintly upwards. “Well, I’m glad you think so,” he says simply, tilting his head in thanks.

“Are we going to dance around the real reason why you’re here? I mean, my liquor cabinet is great, but there are plenty of bars closer to where you live,” teases Wes, kicking back another swallow of his own.

He gives Blaine a moment, watching the constant turn of expressions, rolling in like storm clouds.

“Is it about Kurt?”

Blaine smiles, although the look is thin and tight. “Am I that obvious?”

Wes raises his brow.

Shaking his head slightly, Blaine turns to look forward again, gaze gradually sweeping up into the center of his glass, which he tilts with a neat roll of his wrist. A steady motion, Wes thinks, calm and in contrast with the rest of Blaine’s life, which is always being shaken. He’s about to break the silence, because if there’s something that Blaine doesn’t want to tell him, something private and personal and in that space of Blaine’s life that Wes doesn’t want to tread too much in, then he’d rather not know. He’d rather let Blaine keep his secrets.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to lose Kurt,” murmurs Blaine, and the ripple of his drink betrays his calm.

Too late to keep the box closed now. Maybe it’s better this way, Wes tells him, almost forces himself to believe. His own preferences have nothing to do with this moment; instead, it should be about helping a friend, or at least a client. More than ever, Blaine looks young as he sits on the sofa, shifting slightly, as though wanting to curl up in the corner and pull into himself.

It reminds Wes of those early Dalton days.

“Did something happen?”

Blaine starts, somewhere between a laugh and a flinch, the sound of his breath like a string being pulled taut. “Yes, but that’s not really the point,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair, curls askew. “It’s more like… things don’t _stop_ happening, Wes. I always knew that this business would be tough. Cooper spent a few years out in LA before he gave up, but every year, it was all about pilot season and he’d come back looking dejected and defeated. He never showed it at first, and it was better for a while after he landed that commercial gig, but when I visited him out there for the first time, I started putting the pieces together. Getting discovered is a crap shoot.”

Another gulp gets knocked back, and Blaine lets out a slight hiss after he swallows, cupping the glass delicately with his fingers and running them along the cut pattern. Wes knows better than to interrupt.

“When I figured out that I could handle all that pressure without buckling, it felt like I’d won,” confesses Blaine, glancing up to meet Wes’ gaze. There’s something hard in his eyes, though they remain bright as well, wet and overwhelmed. The contrast is one that has always seemed to exist in Blaine. It isn’t that the strength isn’t there — but there are cracks, crevices where the world often chooses to lay its weight. “Playing in coffee shops, having the vast majority of the listening audience ignore you completely, it made the stage the loneliest place I’d ever known. But gradually, people start listening. Sometimes, you play long enough and they offer you advice, tell you that you should keep your chin up and continue doing what you love doing. And I figured out that for every critic who listened to my music and hated it, I could always find at least one person who enjoyed listening. After that, it was easy.”

Wes takes a draw out of his own glass, remembering. There’s something about Blaine’s telling that feels blurred at the edges. He can recall any number of times when Blaine sent him a text or asked to get coffee before a show. On countless occasions, Wes stayed behind, making sure that there was at least one friendly face in the crowd, one person who would listen and appreciate Blaine, as he was the type of person who fared better with that support.

Setting the spotlight on him had always been the way to draw out his best performances.

But time throws everything into relief, the edges softening when the memories no longer hurt. And Wes doesn’t say a thing to dismantle the confidence earned.

“I love traveling. I love meeting people, I love talking to them about what they love in my work, and I like hearing about what areas I need to improve on. I get my drive that way,” admits Blaine, lips quirking.

“I’ll be sure to remind you of that the next time you complain about your schedule,” says Wes, returning the smile. “But, okay. Let’s say that I take your words at face value… is there something wrong with life never stopping?”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Blaine shakes his head quickly, the movement frenetic. When the liquid in his glass threatens to spill, Blaine simply downs the rest of it, leaning forward to gently set the glass down on the coffee table. “I went on a tangent there, but…” He presses his fingers briefly to his lips, brow furrowing. “I knew that this business would be rough on a professional level, but it’s bleeding into the rest of my life, and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“It wasn’t before?”

Blaine’s frown deepens as he shakes his head. “No, never like this. I mean, I guess I didn’t have much of a private life going in; aside from visiting family, I just went to whatever events all of you told me to. All of it was still helping me to focus on my _job_ , and people are supposed to be critical of that. But dating… is terrifying enough on its own, but being arguably well-known—”

“I think the word you’re looking for is famous, Blaine,” Wes chimes in neatly.

“—famous, whatever. It’s a whole new ball game, Wes.” Folding his hands neatly in his lap, Blaine shifts, sitting up straight on the couch with the tension in his stance palpable. “And the longer I play, the more afraid I am of losing Kurt. The busy schedules, missed calls, the miscommunication… and he doesn’t feel comfortable talking to me about it. I think that’s the worst part.”

It’s hard to refrain from pointing out to Blaine that he’s had the same problem over the years. Wes has watched Blaine try to face all of his problems single-handedly, almost never going to the source and asking for compromise, but instead trying to shoulder it all on his own. He gets the sense that Kurt is far from being the same person, but there are times when circumstances seem to drive different people into the same corners.

And at the brink of collapse, the last thing a person wants to do is bring someone like them down.

“Blaine, I think there will be some of that no matter what difficulties you face. Turning to someone other than your significant other happens, especially if your partner is already going through a hard time.” Leaning forward, Wes drops the volume of his voice further still, nodding his head in the direction of his bedroom. “I mean, consider how often I’ve talked to you about Nikki and the difference between our schedules, how hard it’s been for us to balance our careers and still make time for each other. That’s not because I want to hide my frustration from her — but I don’t want her to carry that burden more than she has to, especially when neither of us plans to quit our jobs anytime soon. We all need someone to vent to, but being in a relationship doesn’t mean that person is where it should all go.”

Eyes narrowing, Blaine shakes his head. “It’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I have a _choice_ that I can make, Wes. And the only reason why I haven’t made it yet is protect my _own_ career,” Blaine snaps, his voice thin and pitched high as he leans further back against the cushions of the couch. With his neck resting against the back of the furniture, Blaine stares angrily up at the ceiling. “Kurt told me the same thing, and it’s not like I can’t see where both of you are coming from. But your situation isn’t one where everything comes down to a single choice. A flip of a switch.”

There’s a pause, a heavy silence that hangs between the both of them, but Wes doesn’t have words to offer this time. The choice is too personal, and impossible for him to empathize with.

“You’ve seen him. You’ve talked to him; there’s no way you don’t know,” he murmurs softly, eyes wide. “That Kurt is one of the bravest individuals I’ve ever met. He’s confident in himself in a way that I’m not sure I’ve ever been. He doesn’t _have_ to talk about his sexuality to put his identity out there in the open. Asking him to keep this part of him closed off must be killing him.”

Shifting, Wes runs his thumb along the lip of his glass, frowning into the reflective surface. “Are you sure that you’re giving Kurt enough credit? He might be stronger than you think.”

“This isn’t about how strong he is,” replies Blaine without missing a beat. “Keeping who I am a secret… will always be the safer decision to make, Wes. Now, or in six months, it’ll still be easy to justify keeping my marketability as high as possible by leaving my love life out of the picture.”

“You won’t always be scrutinized so closely by the press and media.”

“Maybe.” Blaine nods. “Maybe I’ve got a limited shelf life and all that I need to do is keep quiet for the time being before I’m so irrelevant that it doesn’t matter. But if all I’m trying to do is hold onto success for as long as I can… what am I really gaining? Fifteen more minutes of fame? More money to put into the bank? How much is any of that worth in comparison to this?”

Even weighed down by alcohol, limbs loose and heavy, there’s a quiet determination in Blaine’s expression. If anything, with his inhibitions lowered, Blaine looks certain and sure.

It paints a very different picture than what Wes is accustomed to, turning away from Blaine to sit parallel, the pair of them facing the opposite wall.

“I hope that was a hypothetical question.”

“But what if it’s not? None of this is fair to Kurt, and I’m not even sure if it’s fair to _me_. I understand maintaining a certain image with the public, but I want that image to be one that I’m proud of, too.” From the corner of his vision, Wes watches as Blaine turns to face him. “Wes, be honest with me. What do you think I should do?”

Staring into the amber liquid, Wes knocks back the rest of his glass before leaning forward to set it directly next to Blaine’s own. With a pleasant heat in his stomach, Wes lets himself relax, kicking both feet up on the coffee table that stands before them, one ankle neatly crossed over the other.

“When you entered the music industry, Blaine, I thought that perhaps it could be like an extension of Dalton. Maybe you could treat it as you did the Warblers by keeping your personal identity separate from your career. It worked, but only because there was nothing about your identity that you were explicitly hiding — you let people know about your interest in comics, and that worked well. You expressed your interest in pop music, even as you produced acoustic tracks, and no one minded. But then you met Kurt, and it feels like so much has changed.”

Beside him, Wes hears a rustling of fabric and another pair of heels knocking against the table, but he doesn’t stop.

“And I look at the both of you and can’t help wondering how it must feel for you to have something so basic denied you while in this industry. Comparing it to my relationship with Nikki, it’s strange to think that the both of you can’t even go out to a public meal with the pair of us without arousing suspicion. You can’t hold hands without a third of this country disapproving.” He heaves a sigh, eyes sliding to a close. “Believe me, I am the last person you need to convince of how difficult this must be. But that doesn’t make me the right person to turn to for advice.”

“Wes…”

“No, listen. I may not be the right person to turn to, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have something to say.”

Opening his eyes, Wes turns to the side just in time to catch Blaine’s gaze. He smiles.

“As your manager, I’m telling you to stay safe. But as your friend, I’d say that you’re courageous enough that you might not have to.”


	25. Act XXV: Kurt

“We have two weeks left before my show starts.”

With the weather warming up with each passing week, the city’s pace has picked itself back up again, a constant splash of water heard in the distance as cars rush down the street by Kurt’s apartment. Although he’s always loved light rain, New York wears it differently at the end of winter — the water washes aside cinder and dirt, spilling over the pure white of the snow. And unlike in Lima, people dress smartly for the weather here, a myriad of grays and browns clipping along the sidewalk below.

Knotting his robe tighter around his waist, Kurt raises a brow as Blaine’s words finally register. He’s sprawled out on Kurt’s bed, aggravatingly adorable with the sheets rucked and tangled around his limbs, eyes heavy with drowsiness as his cheek nestles in the thick pillows.

“I know,” Kurt replies, cocking a brow as he walks back to the bed, sinking onto the mattress. Immediately, Blaine shifts, crawling closer until he’s able to rest his head in Kurt’s lap with a contented sigh. “Did you suddenly think that I’d lost all sense of time? I have your schedule marked on my calendar.”

“Just thought it was worth pointing out that soon, the show’s going to own me, day and night,” mutters Blaine, his voice muffled by terry cloth. “We should do something before I all but disappear off the face of the earth. The theater may manage to swallow me whole.”

Smiling gently, Kurt runs his fingers through Blaine’s hair, curls free of product and chaotic against his skin. “Actually, if you factor in dress rehearsals and rigorous run-throughs, we probably won’t even have a week before you’re down in the bunker.”

“Our preview night was good.”

“Your preview night was two _months_ ago,” Kurt points out, laughing as he hears a groan pressed against his hip, ruffling Blaine’s hair more insistently. “You’re not going to tell me that your company hasn’t changed a single detail in the play since? If the rumors about Mark Brokaw are true…”

“They are,” huffs Blaine as he emerges, cheeks newly pinked before he shifts again, crawling up until he manages to easily wrap his arms around Kurt’s waist, pulling him further onto the bed. “He’s intensely conscious of the fact that the original fairy tales are a bit socially outdated, so he’s turned the entire show into one about class division and social equality. I’m pretty sure he wanted all of the whimsy of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s score with none of the centuries-old notion of true love saving a damsel in distress.”

“No glorifying the one percent by having our heroine simply marry into royalty?”

“No glorifying the one percent,” affirms Blaine, grinning faintly.

Affecting a resigned sigh, Kurt nudges at Blaine’s shoulders, pushing him just far enough to the side for Kurt to slip back under the covers, feeling a pair of warm hands immediately nudging aside the folds of his robe, smoothing out over skin. “What have we come to in today’s world when we can’t even enjoy a traditional fairy tale without running it to the ground for being non-progressive?” Kurt asks, laughing as Blaine rolls on top of him, hands wrapped around Kurt’s wrists, pinning them lightly among the pillows.

With a raised brow, Blaine shakes his head as he leans down, kissing gently along the line of Kurt’s jaw, his breath tickling slightly against the shell of Kurt’s ear. “Am I hearing this right?” Blaine murmurs, thumb brushing gently against Kurt’s inner wrist. “Kurt Hummel, not standing up for social justice? Who are you, and what have you done with my _gorgeous_ boyfriend?”

“Oh, not you too,” breathes Kurt, running his hands neatly down Blaine’s sides, then over the curve of his behind, kneading at muscle. “I just think there are better ways to spend one’s energy than critiquing stories that _everyone_ knows are dated. If people are really concerned about class mobility, they’d donate to grants for underprivileged students.”

Blaine leans in, suddenly quieting Kurt’s words with a slow, indulgent kiss on the lips, tongue slipping inside and sparking warmth at the base of Kurt’s spine. Face suddenly lighting afire, Kurt moans softly into the kiss, leaning up to deepen the touch before breaking for air.

“I can’t tell if that was rewarding me for my awareness or shutting me up for being a windbag.”

Another whisper of fabric falls against his ears before Blaine plops down next to Kurt, leaving Kurt shivering through the sudden chill down his front, and through a twinge of disappointment. The alarm clock on the opposite nightstand tells him that they don’t have much time, and it’s probably better not to keep Blaine too long, just in case the media starts to wake up as the morning grows late. They’ve been stealing time more lately, taking risks, making use of the stretch of time Blaine gets to be in the city without interruption.

It’s as normal as Kurt’s ever known, for them.

“Maybe I like the fact that you’re a windbag. And considerably more well-informed than most of our peers,” adds Blaine, sliding in close and wrapping an arm around Kurt’s waist, keeping him in place. “But I also know that you’re a harsher critic than most people out there, and I don’t want my confidence to be struck before the show even officially begins.”

Pursing his lips, Kurt frowns, the expression lightly coy. “I didn’t say anything about _your_ work…”

“But it’s a group effort. You know that better than anyone,” chuckles Blaine, tugging at Kurt’s belt until it falls free, his fingertips snaking under the fabric. “Having someone criticize my boss still makes it feel like the entire show is taking a hit. We’re not performing your classic fairy tale, but you might still like it.”

Turning on his side and curling in the safety of Blaine’s arms, Kurt hums his approval, feeling Blaine’s hand traveling higher and brushing down the center of his chest. “I know I will.”

Blaine’s face suddenly lights up with a smile, one that Kurt quickly echoes, and the pair of them pull in close, foreheads touching and breaths mingling.

“Speaking of fairy tales, though,” murmurs Blaine, hand sweeping up until his palm cups Kurt’s cheek. “What are yours?”

“My favorite fairy tales?”

“Yeah,” nods Blaine with a single shouldered shrug. “Or, you know, wishes that you’d love to have granted if you had the opportunity. Things that you want to do in life, even if you’re not focusing on getting there just yet. The three wishes you’d ask for from the genie.”

Wrinkling his nose in thought, Kurt’s gaze skirts down, running along the line of Blaine’s collarbone in muted thought. “I don’t know if I really have _wishes_ that I think about too much, other than those that I can probably accomplish with enough hard work and a little bit of good luck,” confesses Kurt. “I mean, I have a bucket list, but…”

Blaine’s expression is unreadable as he continues to brush his fingers along every contour of Kurt’s body that he finds, the look affectionate, though clouded as well. “Well, okay. So what are some of the items on your bucket list?”

“Why are you asking this, Blaine?”

Kurt watches as Blaine pulls his lip in briefly, biting down before shaking his head. “Just curious. We talk so much about our dreams and careers, but I want to know the little things, too. And maybe, since we have that week before I’m all but gone, we can start crossing off our firsts together.”

At once, Kurt’s chests warms, emotions spilling over — but just barely. It’s how he often feels around Blaine, like the other man encourages more love than Kurt even knew he had the capacity for.

“Okay,” sighs Kurt, turning slightly to reach for his phone. Blaine lets out a surprised snort, one that Kurt counters with a light slap on his shoulder as he enters in his passcode. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“You have your bucket list saved on your _phone?_ ”

“Well, how else am I going to keep track if I complete an item out in the wilderness? Look, _promise_ you won’t laugh, but…”

* * *

“You know, for an item on your bucket list, you really had this planned out,” whispers Blaine as they slip into the glass room, his eyes wide and marveling as they skirt across the space. “I was expecting for us to turn into the first store on the block after lunch, but _Prada?_ On Broadway, no less.”

Kurt offers a faint smile, even as his chest flutters with amusement and excitement alike, heart racing as he slowly walks over to press a button on the floor with his shoe. Immediately, the clear glass in the room fogs over, the texture smoother than frost, but more substantial than smoke. Combined with the soft light that shines down into the room, everything within sight glows, reminding Kurt of all the reasons why he’s always loved this store.

Not all people can live lavishly, but this store has always elevated fashion into art.

“I’m not sure why you’re that impressed, considering you’re the only one between us who can even _afford_ to shop here on a regular basis,” replies Kurt, sliding open a closet door in the room and shrugging off his jacket, sliding it neatly on a hanger. “You’ve really never stepped into a boutique before? And stop whispering. The employees will start to suspect that we’re here to cause trouble.”

“Kurt, when my outfits are planned, they’re also always brought to me by a stylist. I don’t go around shopping for my own look,” mutters Blaine as he steps further inside, mirroring Kurt’s actions by slipping out of his blazer. When Kurt rolls his eyes in response, Blaine protests. “ _Hey_ , come on now, I don’t think having a stylist is half as ridiculous as actually choosing to shop in stores like this.”

Narrowing his eyes with a grin, Kurt steps closer, tugging sharply at Blaine’s tie. “I think you’re _adorable_ ,” he murmurs, tracing his fingers across the thin fabric of Blaine’s shirt.

Pursing his lips and playing along, Blaine arches a brow, reaching out to wrap an arm around Kurt’s waist. “ _Prada_ ,” he repeats, emphasizing each syllable.

Huffing, Kurt shoots a brief glare before turning in Blaine’s hold and glancing at the digital menu placed directly next to the closet, poking around on a whim. “Okay, you know what? When I was in high school, I did the whole ‘shoot for the stars’ type of bucket list, but after five years passed and I found myself no closer to having relations with Taylor Lautner on a dewy meadow of lilac—”

“You’re Team Jacob? _Really?_ ”

“—I _decided_ to take matters into my own hands and only set goals that I could actually accomplish. And they were made a lot easier when I put the work into planning them out.” Turning away from the menu again, Kurt reaches out for Blaine’s waist, feeling his blood thrum as he squeezes tightly over fabric and pushes the both of them towards the far wall, a floor to ceiling mirror, closing in still after he hears the muffled bump of Blaine’s shoulder blades against the glass.

“Unless you have any complaints?” breathes Kurt, lips hovering inches away from Blaine’s own.

It’s all the encouragement Blaine needs, a gasp falling between the both of them as they switch positions, Blaine’s hands roaming and pressing Kurt up against the surface as closely as possible. A second later, Kurt feels Blaine cupping him over his jeans, the pressure clear even through denim, and his eyes quickly flutter to a close.

This is the touch he craves most, demanding and confident.

“I’ll have you wherever I can,” growls Blaine, quickly ducking forward to nip at the side of Kurt’s neck, fingers quickly pushing aside the starched collar and undoing buttons seamlessly as they slide down Kurt’s front. However practiced he is, Blaine’s impatience still reads in the way his fingers stumble over the clasps, a soft whine of frustration pitched low in his throat. “Although I can’t promise that your clothes will always make it out intact.”

“Let me,” murmurs Kurt, wrapping his hands over Blaine’s and squeezing lightly before pushing them aside. “If we take too long, they’ll probably come asking if we want any refreshments.”

“Are you _sure_ no one’s recording this?”

Kurt barely has the time to undo the last button before Blaine’s already pushing away at the fabric, all caution thrown to the wind as his lips close around the darker skin of Kurt’s nipple, eliciting a sudden cry. “Oh _god_ , Blaine — yes, I’m sure that recording this would result in an instant lawsuit for Prada, and they can’t afford—” An especially insistent suck has Kurt’s hands already spanning out over glass, clinging to the surface. “—that when couture sales have already been struggling since the turn of the century.”

He lifts a hand, tentative, to run carefully along Blaine’s inner thigh, reveling in the shudder that he feels passing through Blaine’s entire body.

“But can you say that you’d really mind even if they did?” whispers Kurt, reaching next for the buttons of Blaine’s shirt.

“Maybe not.”

It takes some effort for them to figure out how best to use the room, both pairs of eyes trained on their mirror before they quickly slide the door of the closet shut and use it as support, wincing when it rattles as Kurt presses his body back up against the wood. Still, the effort pays off quickly when Kurt glances to the side, catching a full glimpse of their bodies pressed flush against one another, his own cheeks rosy and warm. The clink of his belt buckle nearly has Kurt looking down, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Blaine’s reflection in the mirror instead, catching details that he wouldn’t have otherwise — the gape of Blaine’s lips as he works quickly at Kurt’s pants, slipping the button free, tugging down the zipper. Blaine looks desperate, hair somehow already disheveled; Kurt can’t even remember doing that.

As though making note of Kurt’s silence, Blaine looks over as well, their gazes catching on one another in the reflection before Blaine smiles, soft and possessive.

Turning back to press his nose against the cut of Kurt’s hip, Blaine murmurs. “Want my mouth?”

“Fuck,” breathes Kurt, the word stuttering as it falls from his lips. “Of course. Want _you_.”

The tone of his own voice surprises Kurt, low and gravelly, his throat already feeling dry before Blaine’s tongue flicks out to slide under the weight of Kurt’s cock, flushed and flared at the tip. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but still they catch also the occasional click of heels outside their room, conversations quietly held as other patrons ask for a different sized garment, accessories, bottled water. The world around them continues to spin, but Kurt’s already fully caught in the whirlwind of Blaine himself, his hands spreading firm and strong over a hip, his breath brushing against Kurt’s abdomen, his lips soft and warm.

He shakes his head when he’s close, blinks as flashes sear themselves into his memory. A glimpse of the button next to frosted glass — any glitch, and the world would see them together, see the fire threatening to shatter him apart — and to the other side, the furrow of Blaine’s brow as he takes Kurt in deeper, a groan caught deep in Kurt’s throat as he tugs sharply at Blaine’s curls. There’s a heat caught along the center of his back, perspiration tickling down his spine and desire stemmed low, winding, _tight_ and desperate.

Right as his muscles strain, Kurt feels Blaine pulling back, letting out a cry of protest before Blaine quickly wraps a hand around Kurt’s cock, continuing to jerk him slow and steady. He rocks into the touch, words slightly out of reach, but hips driving forward in their stead. Faintly, he’s aware of Blaine pulling close again, only this time with his cheek pressed to Kurt’s abdomen, slightly rough against sensitive skin.

“You’re so gorgeous, Kurt,” murmurs Blaine softly, pressing his lips faintly against the side of Kurt’s cock, even as his eyes are trained higher, meeting Kurt’s gaze in the mirror. He brushes a thumb over the head of Kurt’s erection, drawing another bright gasp from Kurt’s tongue while his lips trace along veins. “Love to watch you fall apart like this, just… letting go.”

That’s exactly what it is.

Kurt feels it unfurling in his chest, blooming with warmth — a force pulling him to Blaine, pulling them together, never more than in moments like these, just the two of them together. Trembling, he skates his fingers over Blaine’s shoulders, digging against skin even as he feels liable to shake out of his own. For so long, it’s felt as though he’s needed to fight to assert his identity.

By Blaine’s side, there’s none of that. Just ripples left where walls have already crumbled down.

“I love you,” says Kurt, not for the first time but always more sincere than the last, deeper as he feels love creeping into every crevice, filling places where cracks stretched before.

Blaine glances up then, just as Kurt looks down, their eyes locking and vision pounding with each beat of the heart. “I love you, too,” Blaine replies, his voice strained and rough before he leans in again, enveloping Kurt in tight, wet heat as his hands sweep back to span over Kurt’s back, pulling him closer. _Closer_. Impossibly so.

It isn’t long before Kurt comes, Blaine’s name a constant cry under his breath as his hips jolt forward, held down only by the sure grip of Blaine’s fingers, holding him steady even as his legs threaten to give way under him. Underneath the pleasure that sears through to the tips of his fingers, it’s the security that Kurt feels most, tension slipping out of his body as he slumps against the wall, waiting for Blaine’s arms to envelop him fully again. And they do before Kurt manages to catch his breath, hands sweeping up and along Kurt’s spine as Blaine stands, nose pressed inquisitively by Kurt’s cheek.

Slowly, Kurt turns to face Blaine fully, shivering down to the core as he kisses Blaine, lips pliant and humming at the taste of himself in Blaine’s mouth, a sense of ownership flaring in his chest.

They pull back at once for air, but even then, they keep close to one another. Blaine’s breath sweeps warmly against the curve of Kurt’s lip, a quiet comfort.

“How’s that for public sex?” Blaine asks, his voice a quiet rasp against the shell of Kurt’s ear.

“Not bad,” admits Kurt, blinking his eyes open innocently before he sneaks a hand down Blaine’s front, offering a gentle squeeze. “But we don’t want to leave behind any unfinished business.”

* * *

Startling at the sound of a car door slamming, Kurt pouts in the direction of the vehicle as he watches Blaine round the front, keys jangling as Blaine slips them into his pocket. “You scared me,” Kurt complains, nudging Blaine sharply with his elbow as they walk side-by-side across the parking lot.

“Good. You were zoned out; I wanted to pull your attention back to me,” Blaine says brightly, wrapping an arm around Kurt’s shoulder and tugging him closer for a kiss, wetly pressed against Kurt’s temple.

“ _Gross_.”

Their laughter rings bright through wintry air, nothing else around them to interrupt the silence except for a rare gust of wind. Kurt shivers through the first, wrapping his scarf higher around his neck, until it stretches across his chin. Even with a couple of inches separating them, Blaine easily throws his arm around Kurt, tugging him close and holding him tight against the cold.

“I didn’t think it’d be so much colder up here in Boston,” Blaine remarks, breath immediately fogging in the cold. “You know, back when I lived in Westerville, the whole of New England just seemed to be one big conglomerate to me. I thought it’d be incredibly easy to get around in that space. Boston and New York might as well have been right next to each other, in my mind.”

Reaching back to wrap his own arm around Blaine, Kurt tugs until they’re pressed hip to hip, tilting his head in thought. The skies are bluer here than they’ve been in New York, the clouds scarce in the sky. No hint of oncoming snow. Anyone swayed by sunshine would have been fooled into seeing spring upon looking out a window.

“I’ve always heard from people that Boston has pretty unpredictable weather,” he says, shrugging.

“You’re pretty lucky that the Charles is still frozen and safe to walk on. They’ve predicted that the ice will be more or less rotten by the time March rolls around.” Even as Kurt tries to turn them in the direction of the sidewalk, Blaine directs them away until they’re crunching over snow, slightly old and brittle, but still a clear white spread over the scene.

Kurt wrinkles his nose as the snow clings to his boots, but shakes off the thought with a smile. “ _I’m_ lucky? Hundreds of items on that bucket list, and you choose one that requires us to drive hours to make it over to Boston. Through snow for part of the trip, I might add.”

Grinning, Blaine scratches at the side of his nose, his expression slightly sheepish.

“Be honest. You love _Eternal Sunshine_ just as much as I do,” says Kurt, leveling Blaine with a look.

Blaine holds up a hand in defense, shaking his head. “Look, you can drop Kate Winslet in any movie and it automatically becomes box office _gold_ ,” he says emphatically, and the flush on his cheeks only brightens. “Besides, maybe I wanted to be out of town so that the company couldn’t call me at will for one of their last-minute rehearsals.”

“And you couldn’t pick any of the items that’d have us traipsing around Thailand? I think I have a few that’d be easily fulfilled in Hawaii, too.”

There are a few gazes turned their way as they step through the park by the Kennedy School, but most don’t linger for long. Only when they reach the few blades of grass still struggling to peek through the snow does Kurt drop his arm at last, searching for Blaine’s hand and lacing their gloved fingers. Their laughter reaches the river first, breath rising in the air before they tiptoe over the ice, Kurt wincing with every step.

“You’re not going to fall through,” remarks Blaine, grabbing both of Kurt’s hands and tugging them both further out over the river.

“You don’t know that. It’s _February_.”

“Look, if either of us falls through the ice, then I’ll — _whoa!_ ”

Quickly reaching for Kurt’s coat, Blaine’s flailing and fast reflexes do nothing to stop him from suddenly slipping onto the ice, landing painfully on his behind and tugging Kurt down in the process. Kurt becomes acutely aware of the chill first, freezing against his palm as he scrambles to keep from crushing Blaine as he falls, but their limbs end up tangled and Kurt’s hands slip out from under him. Falling on top of Blaine, Kurt can hear the wind behind knocked out of both of them through the impact, laughing already before the pain sets in, sharp, but not unbearable.

“I totally saw that coming,” says Kurt, trying to keep his expression even.

“Well, look, at least the ice didn’t break under our weight.”

It takes some careful shifting before they’re on their backs, side by side, squinting against the glare of the sun as they stare up into the clear blue sky above. They don’t hold each other, offering little more contact than their clasped hands at their sides, but with the murmurs of passerby echoing in the distance, being together on the river feels like enough.

“So, what made you want to recreate this scene?” Blaine asks, still staring directly above. “The movie doesn’t exactly have the most idealistic view of romance. You don’t think this bodes ill for our future prospects?”

Licking his lips, Kurt shakes his head, grimacing at the scrape of ice against the back of his head. “I think the movie is pretty hopeful, when you think about it. It shows… that sometimes people are drawn to each other even under different circumstances. Maybe it’s not about getting lucky that one time, maybe it’s just that life makes it easier or harder for people to find each other, but after they do, those marks never go away.” Quietly, he draws himself up to his elbows, glancing down at the stretch of Blaine’s body before nestling his head right by Blaine’s shoulder. “I mean, in the end, they got back together, didn’t they?”

Blaine shifts, and Kurt swears he can sense the smile.

“I guess that’s acceptable. As long as I get to be Kate Winslet.”

* * *

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“What are you talking about? It’s _your_ bucket list.”

“True, but _this_ was never part of the plan!”

As Blaine bursts out into laughter at his side, Kurt feels his cheeks burning at once, embarrassment pervasive and thrumming in his skin as he uses both fists to punch Blaine’s shoulder. “Ow, hey! Sorry, I’m sorry!” Blaine exclaims, still chortling as he wraps his hands around Kurt’s wrists, holding them tentatively in place. While their nearest neighbors shoot looks towards the commotion, the crowd is bustling enough that the gazes turn away quickly enough to avoid notice.

“Are you _trying_ to blow our cover?” hisses Kurt, growling faintly until Blaine sweeps him from behind, arms wrapped tightly around Kurt’s waist, pinning his arms in place. The contact calms him slightly, eyes nervous as they glance from side to side, and he wiggles enough to free one hand, brushing aside lengthy tresses of hair. “Someone’s going to notice sooner or later, I swear.”

Shifting until his chin hooks over Kurt’s shoulder, Blaine shakes his head, pressing a soft kiss behind Kurt’s ear. “ _Relax_. If anything gives you away, it’ll be the fact that you look like you’re having gas pains right now.” Kurt tenses, but before he can protest, Blaine tightens his hold. “Although you still look great, for what it’s worth. I’m pretty sure you can pull off any look.”

Kurt huffs, only slightly placated. In spite of himself, he raises his hands up to rest over Blaine’s arms, rocking slightly into the hold. The dimly lit lobby around the box office is even darker through his shades, forcing him to squint into the crowd. “I’m slightly surprised that so many people are gathered here for _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_. I was sure that the greatest rush would be for _Newsies_ , or gosh, even I wouldn’t say no to seeing _Wicked_ for the umpteenth time.”

“Well, Emilia Clarke’s popularity _has_ been skyrocketing ever since _Game of Thrones_ started, and she’s back for an unprecedented second run.”

“Oh, that’s _right_. I hadn’t thought of that. I was more eager to see the show simply because I didn’t catch its first Broadway run a couple of years ago, since at that point I was still working for—”

“ _Shhh_ , shhh, it looks like they’re about to announce the winners.”

Grasping Blaine’s hands tightly, Kurt continues to tilt the pair of them from foot to foot with Blaine’s arms wrapped around his center, pushing occasionally onto his toes to get a better look at the announcer. The tickets she holds in her hands dwindle quickly as excited theatergoers step up to claim their winnings, and with each pair, Kurt feels his hopes start to falter.

“We’re never going to win at this rate, she’s on her last five.”

“You are _way_ too much of a Debbie downer. Have a little faith!”

“This isn’t about faith, it’s about _odds_ , and they’re not in our favor.”

The joke earns Kurt a hush as Blaine blindly gropes for Kurt’s mouth, pressing an ungloved hand over his lips. Wrinkling his nose, Kurt leans forward to bite at Blaine’s fingers in protest, playfully growling against the restraint.

“—ticket ending in 540 for Nomi and… Cristal?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Frozen stiff and mortified as dozens of gazes suddenly turn on them, Kurt stands rooted to the ground as Blaine rushes forward to retrieve their tickets, nearly stumbling in his two-inch heels and his wig knocked slightly askew.

Adjusting his own curly blonde tresses, Kurt carefully slips through the crowd as quietly as possible to head to the table, but Blaine’s back before he can even make it halfway there, showing off both of their tickets with an excited wave.

“Kurt, _Kurt_ , look! We _won_.”

Flailing, Kurt quickly covers Blaine’s mouth with a gloved hand before closing his other around the crook of Blaine’s elbow, tugging both of them hard towards the exit. “Yes, _Cristal_ , we got our hands on rush tickets and that’s wonderful,” mutters Kurt, quickly pushing the door open to the chilly air outside and bristling at a few wolf whistles that trail after them. “Now let’s head back to the apartment, since the tickets are for the evening performance, mm?”

They don’t even manage to walk half a block away from the theater before Blaine swivels them both quickly into the shadowed entranceway of a small boutique, leaning forward to press a quick, searching kiss to Kurt’s lips.

“We got tickets,” whispers Blaine, eyes sparkling with delight and words hushed, as though sharing a secret. “We just rushed a show. That was _amazing_.”

Trying his best to maintain a stern look, Kurt can’t help but soften under Blaine’s enthusiasm, pursing his lips. “Your lipstick’s smeared everywhere,” he mutters, even as a slight grin tugs at his lips.

“I don’t care. That was only part of an effective disguise that let me spend the morning lining up for tickets with my boyfriend,” Blaine replies, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s served its use.”

Kurt snorts softly, eyes roaming over the way Blaine looks now, hair hastily tucked under one of Rachel’s woolen caps and scarf strategically tucked under the lapels of her bright red pea coat. Even with a ridiculous amount of bright crimson lipstick smeared over his lips, Kurt still finds himself taken with the effort, amusement fluttering in his stomach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that successfully rushing the opening night of a Broadway show was _your_ bucket list item, not mine.”

“Hey, that was my first time rushing, _period_ ,” says Blaine, wagging a brow as he rubs at the line of Kurt’s lips with his thumb, brushing away a smudge of lipstick. “Another first of mine that now belongs to you.”

When Kurt smiles, Blaine bumps their foreheads gently together, lacing his fingers with Kurt’s and tugging them out to the sidewalk again.

“The first of many,” Blaine adds.

* * *

“You know, I’ve been here plenty of times, but never yet as a performer. Sometimes I feel like that’s the biggest item that I still need to have checked off my bucket list, but then I wonder if that would make the magic slip away, just a bit.”

The lights that rain down on Kurt and Blaine as they sit in the center of the stage are bright and warm, forcing long shadows to stretch behind their bodies. Under the glare, the stage decorations are clear down to every last detail, magnificent as they tower overhead — large brass gears, sweeping webs, and a map in the background that Kurt knows like the back of his hand.

He feels Blaine’s weight draw close, resting gently against his shoulder. “Because of _Wicked_?”

Kurt smiles. “Because of _Wicked_.”

Blaine’s gaze drops down to the hands, palms flat against the floor and resting only a couple of inches apart. Spurred suddenly to action, Blaine reaches out to gently rest his hand on top of Kurt’s, not bothering yet to lace their fingers. A presence, but not an intrusion. “You don’t think the show’s a bit overrated?” Blaine asks, leaning forward to catch Kurt’s gaze. “I haven’t watched nearly as many musicals as you have, but when you were on stage… that was as magical as _Wicked_ could ever be.”

Laughing lightly, Kurt throws his head back slightly, letting his gaze wander up to the balcony, imagining every seat filled, a rapt audience waiting for the first number.

“You’re sweet. You’re also _wrong_ ,” scolds Kurt while wagging a finger. He lifts his chin again before letting out a soft sigh, leaning back until his weight is propped up by a single elbow, and turns his hand until he’s able to squeeze Blaine’s. “I mean, there are plenty of shows with beautiful scores, gorgeous visual effects, or stellar performances. I’d _like_ to imagine that I can count myself among their number, but I’m still pretty far from being Tony material. I’ll get there, though.”

He hears Blaine chuckle from the side, quiet and affectionate.

“It’s the story, really. You have a heroine who’s so easily misunderstood, whose tale doesn’t _become_ a happily ever after, even once she’s realized her identity. People judge her at a glance — her appearance and what she is, both of those things ruin her for the masses.” His heart squeezes tight at the words; it’s been years since Kurt was able to first draw the parallels, since a musical was able to hit him square in the chest, and he’s never quite explained it to anyone like this. It probably isn’t unusual for people to identify with something in a story like _Wicked_ , catered specifically for the underdog. But there’s a difference, Kurt thinks, between what he can pull from the story, and what peers like Rachel have chosen to.

Life is always going to be a fight for him. There’s no ending the struggle, not in his lifetime, maybe not even in the next century.

Glancing to the side, Kurt isn’t sure if that same conclusion rests in Blaine’s eyes, but he’s fallen quiet nonetheless. Carefully, Kurt rises to his feet, tugging to have Blaine follow.

“Obviously, I’m far from the only person to ever be touched by this tale. Singing ‘Defying Gravity’ on _this_ stage, it’s like every Broadway performer’s dream.” Kurt takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, his entire field of vision bathed in a rosy glow. “It’s as clichéd as it gets, but there’s a reason why I waited this long to sing it here.”

Walking the pair of them to the side of the stage, Kurt nods his head in the direction of the seats that line the front row, his smile widening with each step.

“I needed the right audience.”

Far enough under the spotlight, the seats in the theater begin to fade from view. Kurt keeps his eyes wide open, doesn’t strain to catch the arch of every row — instead, he holds fast to that aching sense of nostalgia, and the smile shining at him from the front row. His heart pounds, louder and reverberating through his chest, a pounding of drums resonating against his sternum and a clash of cymbals ringing in his ears. Kurt lifts his arms, capturing the energy in the air, lifted with nothing to pull him down.

“ _So if you care to find me, look to the western sky! As someone told me lately, everyone deserves the chance to fly! And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free; to those who’d ground me, take a message back from me. Tell them how I am defying gravity._ ”

* * *

_“…and that’s the last item. For now. I’m sure that I’ll add more as they come to me, but I’m not even close to striking down the list I already have, so expanding it feels a bit premature.”_

_“It’s a good list.”_

_“You think so?”_

_“Mhmm. Tell you what. Before my time in the show is done, we’ll choose five of these things to do — together.”_

_“Five items in two months? We_ are _ambitious, aren’t we?”_

_“Confident, Kurt. The word you’re looking for is confident.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to [**Katrina**](http://drblaine.tumblr.com) for helping me with the bucket list items!


	26. Act XXVI: Kurt and Blaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a bonus for this final posting, you can find a piece of _Ambitions_ art by yours truly attached to the fic masterpost on Tumblr **[here](http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/49317139959/ambitions-like-ribbons-masterpost-summary-this)**.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy. ♥

“You know that you’re not supposed to be back here, right?”

Soft sighs fall gently against heated skin, even as movement continues around the pair, the sound of yelling voices bright over that of props being wheeled into place. Tugging the pair of them into the curtains in the wings, Kurt lifts his arms until they encircle Blaine’s shoulders, kissing in spite of the chalky taste of lipstick, nuzzling even as powder tickles his nose. There are a few minutes left before the audience will get a chance to filter in, before a constant murmur buzzes around them like a busy hive, and Kurt intends to make the most of them, careful to avoid wrinkling Blaine’s outfit but not bothering to spare his makeup.

There’s time enough to fix that, anyway.

“I think I’m actually pretty familiar with what goes on backstage,” he replies cheekily, laughter hot against Blaine’s lips before he sinks in for another kiss, slow and indulgent. “Probably even more than you are. Your stage is that of an international pop star; there, you make the rules. Here, everything requires a little more precision.”

Before Blaine has a chance to protest, Kurt closes off his breath with a kiss, this one rushed and eliciting giggles from deep in Blaine’s chest. They’ll surely be reprimanded if they’re found, and Blaine thinks that he can hear someone calling for him from a distance, the voice growing ever more frantic — but something about the almost forbidden nature of having Kurt back here with him makes Blaine want to hold onto the moment even more. Solidifies a desire rooted deep in his chest, one that always leaves him wanting to be by Kurt’s side, and finds new things to marvel about in Kurt all of the time.

But desire isn’t the only thing that nestles in Blaine’s lungs. There’s an ache as well, spreading broad and stretching across his chest.

“Be honest,” Blaine breathes once they come up for air, taking advantage of Kurt’s hesitant hands to wrap his own around Kurt’s wrists, slowly pinning Kurt’s arms behind his back and swiveling them both until Blaine’s hips trap Kurt close to the wall. “You just wanted to do a little necking where it’s actually possible that people might come across us.”

“No!” Kurt protests, brows knit even as he grins sheepishly. “Blaine Anderson, do you think so little of me? I just wanted to have a little time with my boyfriend before he on stage, is that so wrong? Besides, we _totally_ could have been caught at Prada.”

“We left the store with half a dozen bags because you felt sorry for wrongly using their facilities. I’m pretty sure that’s worth more to them than having the room cleaned and disinfected after the two of us,” Blaine points out, raising a hand back up to brush along the line of Kurt’s jaw.

“Shhh, okay, this line of conversation _needs_ to stop, because there is absolutely nothing attractive about disinfectant,” whispers Kurt, who leans forward to cut off Blaine’s words with a gentle kiss, slightly searching.

Blaine’s arms are just about to curl around Kurt’s shoulders when he hears an all-too familiar voice some yards away, stretched and on the verge of snapping. Laughing through their last kiss, Blaine shakes his head and pulls away, ignoring Kurt’s whines of protest as best he can. “As much as I love revisiting high school performance fantasies right now,” he murmurs softly, nodding in the direction of the stage. “I can hear Wes about to enter an apoplectic fit, so I should get out there.”

Heaving a deep breath, Kurt suddenly drops his head, body pliant and muscles limp before he glances back up with a reluctant nod. “Okay,” he says, pursing his lips. “I guess we really _must_ be driving your cast crazy by this point. And I should probably head back to reach my seat before someone decides to ‘unknowingly’ plop a kid there and guilt me into switching places.”

“Do people really do that?”

“I wouldn’t want to risk it either way,” Kurt replies, grabbing both of Blaine’s cheeks and pulling him close for a peck before turning a quarter-circle on his heel. “Break a leg, Blaine. Figuratively speaking.”

Grinning from ear to ear as he steps out of the wings, Blaine brushes his hands over his hair, smoothing down errant strands as he watches Kurt start to walk away. Even though Kurt had wanted to come watch Blaine earlier in the show’s run, Blaine insisted on reserving tickets for his last performance as the prince, wanting to settle into the role and for the flow to be natural.

Wanting to be at his very best.

He’s still smiling as he ducks back with the rest of the cast, a few members passing him exasperated looks, but most of them grinning as they usher Blaine towards makeup to deal with the fresh new smudges by his lips.

* * *

The seat Kurt has reserved isn’t in the first row. It isn’t even in the center section, although it’s an orchestra seat nonetheless — close enough to get a good view of the action, even if his field of view is heavily focused on the left side of the stage. This is the most excited Kurt’s ever been to watch Blaine in action, more personal and focused than the concerts Blaine usually holds nowadays, and Kurt keeps his back straight and shoulders pulled back in contained excitement as the other theatergoers start to trickle in, finding their seats. From what he’s heard, this performance sold out weeks ago, and even if seats are determined by the printed tickets, there’s still a heightened rush that Kurt observes as people file inside, the murmurs loud and constant like a thrum.

As people start to sit around him, Kurt notices that the crowd is different than what he’s accustomed to. The orchestra section usually skews a little bit older, conversations held at a softer volume, but now it feels like there are people his age wherever he looks, if not younger, and laughter rings clear around the theater. Without having anyone he knows seated around him, Kurt keeps quiet, curling in his seat and silently watching.

When he turns, Kurt briefly crosses gazes with the young woman seated next to him. Her smile widens welcomingly. “Excited for the show?” she asks, eyes bright and fingers clutching tight to her Playbill.

“I’m always excited for a show,” Kurt laughs fondly, jiggling a foot before he pulls both hands to his lap, lacing his fingers neatly but failing to suppress the butterflies in his stomach. “…but I have to admit, I’m much more excited for this show than most. I have a couple of friends who are part of the cast, and they insisted that I come for the closing performance, so I’m thrilled to see what all the fuss is about.”

The woman’s eyes widen, lips gaping in surprise. “Wait, are you serious? You’re friends with some of the cast? Oh god, I’m sure that everyone’s asked you this question, but… have you had the chance to meet Blaine Anderson? Does he spend any time hanging out with the other actors?” Before Kurt can respond, she takes in a deep breath, cheeks already flushing in her enthusiasm. “Because he’s why I decided to actually fly out to New York and watch a Broadway show live. Usually I drop more money on concert tours, but it’s not like Broadway picks itself up and hops from city to city.”

“No, no, we’re pretty rooted in New York, it’s true,” nods Kurt with a grin. His gaze briefly drops to his knees, wondering how much he can feel comfortable sharing with a near stranger. “And, I _might_ have been in close proximity to Mr. Anderson once or twice, but I’m sure that I’d be here even if he weren’t playing our modern-day Prince Charming.”

“That’s _so_ neat,” she marvels, fingers still smoothing over her Playbill before she tucks an errant lock of dark brown hair behind an ear. “I’m pretty excited to see him venture outside of music. I didn’t know much about Broadway before they announced that Blaine Anderson was starring in _Cinderella_ , but I’ve spent the past couple of weeks reading through things… there are some other roles that I’d love to see him tackle. Or other shows that I’d love to watch, period.”

Her words come across as a surprise at first. Even now, Kurt suspects that a lot of people in the audience are only here to see Blaine, and may never bother returning to Broadway unless a major Hollywood or musical artist is starring — but this is the first time he’s come across someone who seems to be venturing outside of that. It shouldn’t be such a shock; interests evolve organically, and there’s always some spark that lights a fire.

He’s just never before thought of Blaine in that way.

“Well, you’re not alone. I’d _love_ to see Blaine regularly performing on stage. I mean, I’ve heard great things about him in this show, and the more people who are interested in Broadway, the better.”

Pursing her lips in a grin, the woman tilts her head from side to side. “Clearly, you’ll just have to get those friends of yours to do some good convincing backstage,” she points out, arching a brow confidently.

Kurt laughs, scratching the bridge of his nose before nodding resolutely. “I may just have to do that.”

Her smile softens, the look of her expression almost shy when she speaks next. “By the way, thanks for talking to me. The truth is, I’m here in the city on my own, and it really helps to have someone friendly to talk to.” Eyes hopeful, she holds out a hand. “My name’s Unique.”

“Kurt,” he replies, quick to take her hand in his own for a firm shake. “And the pleasure’s all mine.”

* * *

Even with their voices projected out into the distance, it’s the rustle of fabric and his pulse in his ears that Blaine hears most as he steps out onto the stage. During every single rehearsal for this musical, he’s taken the time and care to pick a single seat out in the distance, trying to figure out how far to turn his head, how high to look, peering through bright lights to try and make out a face among the crowd. It’s never been difficult until now, suddenly now, when his head feels like it’s swimming and not a single person in the audience is clear to his eyes.

But the Prince is allowed to be confused at this moment as well, swimming through pomp and circumstance that he never asked for, never wanted. Rachel stands in the distance, her dress the faintest of blues and glowing in the distance, even in his peripheral vision. With his heart hammering and the seconds trickling down, Blaine continues to search, momentarily to the right half of the audience, then back towards the left, where he knows Kurt is seated somewhere. The panic doesn’t cause him to blanch, doesn’t lessen the surety of his steps.

It’s not that he needs to find Kurt just yet, but this entire performance… these past few months, it’s that time he wants to pay homage to.

Just then, he catches movement off and to the side, light reflecting off of someone’s necklace, and a hand shyly waving through the air. He doesn’t recognize the woman wearing the jewelry, though her hair is coiffed and worth notice all on its own; instead, it’s the person sitting next to her that takes his breath away, and even through the dark of the theater and the gleaming lights of the stage, Blaine swears that he can make out a hint of a smile.

He responds with one of his own.

After a soft sigh, Blaine relaxes his entire body, shoulders loosening as he turns to face the center of the stage, flooding lights suddenly dimming and a spotlight shining on Rachel. She looks like a vision, and has ever since her first scene on opening night, beaming under the rapt attention of the audience, cheeks blooming over with a faint dusting of pink. In the months that they’ve worked together, Blaine’s come to see that expression often, always on the occasions that Finn stops by the dance studio. In this way, art imitates life, and their life experiences weave neatly into their performances. These days, when Blaine sings, there’s a tightness that stretches across his chest, aching but warm, and he knows exactly who put that there.

A swirling of skirts, the weaving of strings humming in the air, bolts upon bolts of fabric and a dancing through the heavy curtains as though they’re nothing at all. Blaine loses himself in the movement, smooth and muted though it is, keeping his eyes trained on Rachel wherever she goes, even as he longs to cast his gaze out into the audience again.

Then, suddenly, everything comes to a halt.

Someone in the crowd sneezes, the sound ringing through the air. Blaine does his best not to laugh, not to acknowledge the affection bubbling in his chest.

Rachel looks up, hopeful, yet anything but expectant.

And Blaine takes a step closer.

“ _Ten minutes ago, I saw you. I looked up when you came through the door._ ”

He continues stepping across the stage, his heels clicking against wood, pulse rushing and head feeling light enough to skim through the clouds — the incomparable high of performing.

“ _My head started reeling; you gave me the feeling the room had no ceiling or floor…_ ”

* * *

There are no better stories to get lost in than fairy tales. Being able to bring everything to a neat close without worries or consequence, and knowing that good people can always succeed but remain honest and true, it all makes for a safe world to get lost in. An easy world to be blinded by. Kurt has never been fortunate enough to sink into such a fantasy for long; reality comes knocking at his door as though it wants something from him, effort or perseverance. And where fire should test gold and purify it, Kurt never feels such a comfort after adversity.

Knowing that doesn't alter the magic of the stage.

He isn’t sure how Blaine manages to do it, picking him out of an endless sea of faces. Even with his experiences in shows, Kurt’s never even bothered trying to look past the first row, not wanting to distract himself from the moment and the emotion. But if anything, the brief cross of his gaze seems to fuel Blaine, his expression achingly familiar.

“Did he just look over this way? I think he looked over this way!” Unique whispers, her eyes still fixed on the stage even as she leans over to poke Kurt gently in the arm.

Shaking his head quickly, Kurt holds out a hand to calm Unique down, staring raptly up where Blaine and Rachel have started dancing, perfectly in sync, every bit the picturesque couple. It strikes envy deep in Kurt’s heart, a small breath pulling between his lips.

There’s a fairy tale unfolding directly before his eyes on the stage, ethereal in every sense of the word, yet it aches to know that the world’s most beloved tales don’t afford much room for someone like Kurt.

* * *

“Are you sure that you still want to do this?”

“Completely. Tonight, performing up there on that stage, it’s felt more powerful than anything else I’ve ever done. It _has_ to be here.”

“Does Wes even know about your plan?”

“I haven’t told him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.”

* * *

“I’ve seen pictures. It clashes.”

“Well, you can’t expect every person invited to a wedding to color coordinate with one another. Not everyone looks good in the same color or hue, so by enforcing a color palette, you’d be _really_ putting some people at a disadvantage.”

“ _Almost_ true. Except for red. Even with the palest, pinkest complexion known to man, you can find _some_ shade of crimson that will look flattering, I swear by it. My father got remarried when I was in high school, had a fall wedding, it was _perfect_ for planning purposes. Russet and cognac, there wasn’t a single person who couldn’t find something nice to wear.”

In the minute or so of transition leading up the finale of the show, Kurt and Unique laugh to the side, curled up deep in their seats and snickering quietly to try and not disturb those sitting around them. Between the fleeting breaks and intermission, they’ve already found a great deal that they share — a love of music, affection for dance, and most interestingly of all, very strong opinions when it comes to clothing and fashion.

“That might work for a private ceremony, but on stage? If you cast lights over all that red and orange, you’ll end up with a set that looks like an homage to Bad Romance, and that sure doesn’t fit the look of _Cinderella_.”

“Russet and _cognac_ , excuse you.”

“Shhh, shh, it looks like they’re starting.”

With his cheeks aching from laughter, Kurt snorts in feigned disgruntlement before he watches as the curtains are pulled back, revealing the entire cast in their period finest. There’s no real theme to the ensembles, a smattering of muted pastels and sequins across the stage, but in the midst of all the chaos, the leading couple is easy to pick out, both swathed in white cloth and gold embroidery as the walk up to the alter.

“Sorry, Rachel,” Kurt murmurs softly, breathless. “But I’m definitely picturing another person standing across from him right now.”

“ _Impossible,_ ” the fairy godmother sings, flaxen curls catching the spotlight as she steps forward and raises her arms with the music. “ _Things are happening every day._ ”

The lights dim then, save for a single ray flooding down on Blaine, the tassels on his costume glittering bright. He steps forward, turning to face the left side of the audience, eyes searching.

“Is this a part of the show?” Kurt quickly asks, reaching out to momentarily grip Unique’s wrist, and spotting movement as she shakes her head.

“None of the summaries I read online said anything about this.”

Suddenly, Kurt catches Blaine’s gaze, watching Blaine’s expression immediately bloom into a wide smile as the note from the strings fades.

“ _Do I love you because you’re beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you?_ ”

Kurt’s heart hammers away in his chest, legs crossing tight as his hands scramble to grip at his armrests. All around him, people are turning around, searching to find who Blaine is singing to, to find whatever has stolen his attention away from the show. Only a couple of people spot Kurt in the process, but already the murmurs rise around him, buzzing like bees in a hive.

He feels them passing through his lungs, cutting off his air.

“ _Am I making believe I see in you a man too lovely to be really true?_ ”

Blaine steps away from the rest of the party, though none of the cast looks surprised. A few look on in quiet interest, but more members still beam, reaching out for one another and congregating in small groups, although they hold their tongues. At least, Kurt thinks that they do. At the moment, all he hears is Blaine, his voice ringing true through the hall.

A set of stairs stands right by the side of the stage — when did that get there? — hidden under robust ropes of ivy, leaves dark and wide, and Blaine easily descends them with a smile, his pace picking up as he nears the aisle by Kurt’s seat.

“ _Do I want you because you’re wonderful, or are you wonderful because I want you?_ ”

Next to Kurt, Unique gasps, the both of them at once bathed in light as Blaine approaches. The gazes turned towards them are still divided, the questioning whispers now louder and piercing, but still Kurt focuses on the thud in his ears and the clarity in Blaine’s voice.

Has this been Blaine’s plan all along?

“ _Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream? Or are you really as beautiful as you seem?_ ”

Frozen in place, Kurt’s lips are parted as he watches Blaine run up the aisle, slowing only once he’s within a few steps of Kurt’s seat. The glove on his hand is starched and white, and Kurt already expects it to be rough, even before Blaine reaches out; his nerves are on edge, frayed, capturing every change in the atmosphere.

Gasps litter the area around him, a few squeals barely contained.

“ _Am I making believe I see in you a man too perfect to be really true?_ ”

Slipping out of his glove, Blaine offers his bare hand out to Kurt, who stares unseeingly for a couple of seconds before suddenly taking it in hand — oh god, it isn’t possible, this. He feels liable to shake out of his skin, his hands trembling and knees weak as Blaine tugs him to his feet, and only seconds later does he feel his cheeks flaring with heat, the kind that leaves him splotchy and that he’s always covered on stage with layers upon layers of foundation. He finds himself aware of the slightest things, the fact that this angle emphasizes their height difference, the fact that the hand sliding down to his back feels larger than normal, splayed so widely across his back that it braces Kurt with a sense of support.

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out a question. “Wh-what are you doing?”

Judging by the laughter that erupts suddenly from the crowd, Blaine’s not the only one who hears.

Unperturbed, Blaine simply starts to guide both of them back towards the stage, one arm wrapped tightly and securely around Kurt’s waist as he starts to smile at all the people they pass together, clapping his free hand down on Kurt’s shoulder and trying to massage the tension away.

“ _Do I want you because you’re wonderful?_ ” Blaine asks, his voice supported now by the entirety of the chorus, who smile at the pair as they climb the stairs. “ _Or are you wonderful because I want you?_ ”

As they climb the final step, Blaine whirls away, a shock of cold suddenly cast down Kurt’s body before he realizes that both of his hands are squeezed tightly in Blaine’s own. Gripping them tightly in return, Kurt stares as Blaine leads them to the center of the stage, nearly walking into him when Blaine stops without warning, their knees knocking and a laugh breaking free from Blaine’s lips.

“ _Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream?_ ” asks Blaine, tracing a hand down the line of Kurt’s jaw and pulling them close, sharing warmth. “ _Or are you really as wonderful as you seem?_ ”

A smile from Kurt is enough of an answer, and in front of hundreds of people, Kurt watches as Blaine leans closer, until every detail of his face blurs in closeness.

The whole world at their feet as they kiss.

* * *

“Don’t worry,” says Blaine as soon as his hand is closed around the mic handed off to him by a production assistant, the loud sea of applause dying down seconds after. “I’m not about to propose on stage. Or, I guess if you were hoping for that, I’m sorry to disappoint — but I’m pretty sure that Kurt would murder me on the spot if I decided to pop the question like this.”

Laughing, Blaine glances to his side, where Kurt stands a careful couple of paces away, blushing furiously and glaring daggers at the joke. Thankfully, the anger looks to be reflexive at best, Kurt’s shoulders pulling up in embarrassment as Blaine almost feels a flicker of regret.

_Almost_ being the key word.

“Uhm… well, if you’re here to watch the prince marry the beautiful, talented, _intelligent_ girl of his dreams, I’m sorry to disappoint. Make no mistake, Rachel Berry is the best Cinderella that I could have ever imagined, and she put on a _brilliant_ performance tonight, so I expect to see her starring in more shows on Broadway. Casting directors, take note.” Breathless, Blaine laughs, brushing at his forehead and feeling nervousness settle into his stomach as he looks out into the hushed audience. “But I decided to be massively selfish and begged favors of all the friends I’ve made here to let me take a moment and introduce the love of my life to the world.”

Licking his lips, Blaine ducks his head when he hears scattered applause in the hall, gripping his mic tighter as he glances up again. “Some people don’t like to announce their love to the public, and that’s fine. The world makes it pretty hard to sometimes, which I’ve learned lately, and I hope that anyone who wants to keep their lives private has the chance to. But growing up, I’ve always been that person who hopes for grand gestures and wants everyone to share in my happiness. Getting to perform on Broadway has been an absolute _dream_ these past few weeks, and I hope to return if this doesn’t earn me a lifetime ban, but it wouldn’t have been half as fun without the people I worked with and who supported me through this process,” explains Blaine, feeling emboldened as he pushes on, and catching a glimpse of Kurt’s expression when he looks to the side, calmer now, and as rapt as the crowd seated in front of them. “I want to thank the cast and crew, who have been unbelievably welcoming and worked so hard to make this show everything that it is. I want to thank my parents for supporting my choice in career when they really didn’t have to, and my brother for paving the way and being an inspiration. I want to thank the Warblers, my manager, Wes. And… him.”

Even as Kurt shakes his head minutely, Blaine quickly steps forward and wraps an arm around Kurt’s shoulders, hands dropping to squeeze Kurt’s arms as he tugs the pair of them back to center stage. Before long, Kurt’s laughing, smiling sheepishly as he waves out at the audience.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, raising his chin in fondness. “My better half.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you did that.”

Either Blaine doesn’t hear, or he isn’t stopping to listen, laughing as the pair of them rush past the rest of the cast and head at once for Blaine’s dressing room, closing the door to keep intruders from slipping into the already narrow space. Kurt’s legs finally give way under him as he plops down on the bench in front of Blaine’s mirror, blinking up and still feeling his entire body struck dumb from the shock.

“Did what?” Blaine asks cheekily, crouching down and resting his elbows on top of Kurt’s knees. “Publicly serenade you? Bucket item number three hundred, the last on your list. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Puffing his cheeks out, Kurt reaches out to smack Blaine on the shoulders, a helpless and nervous laugh falling free from his lips. “You _jerk_ ,” he whines, with another shake of his shoulders sending him halfway between a chuckle and a sob. “You could have given me a bit of a warning! _Any_ hint that you were planning on introducing _us_ to the world.”

“That would have completely taken the fun out of it,” says Blaine, shifting his weight fully on his knees and pushing himself up, face within inches of Kurt’s own. His smile fades then, eyes wide. “Are you really upset right now? Because if that was pushing it too far, I’m really sorry, K—”

“No.”

Blaine tilts his head, the blush from his cheeks fading. “No?”

Feeling his eyes burn, Kurt quickly raises the heel of his palm, rubbing away at the corners of his eyes as tears start to spill over. “ _No_ , I’m not mad, I know we — I told you that I was ready whenever you are, and I am, and I _love_ being serenaded to but I wasn’t expecting it and suddenly you were in front of me and—”

His words quickly grow unintelligible as his shoulders shake, and Blaine huffs a relieved breath before he’s laughing again, launching up into Kurt’s arms and wrapping his own tightly around Kurt’s place, offering support. Kurt can’t be sure from where his chin rests over Blaine’s shoulder, but judging by the quiver in Blaine’s breath, he might not be the only one crying.

“I love you,” Blaine breathes against the side of Kurt’s neck, almost a sigh. “I love you _so_ much, Kurt. You’re the love of my life, and I don’t care who knows it. I _want_ everyone to know it, and I need you to know that I want to be here for you, for us, no matter what happens. Okay?”

Shuddering through another gasp, Kurt’s hands quickly clutch at Blaine’s jacket, letting out a snort of frustration when the fabric proves too heavy and smooth to grip well, leaving him pawing at Blaine’s back. “But, but you didn’t do this for me, did you? Because if you did this for me, I mean, it’d be very romantic, for one, but it could lead to resentment, which could lead to anger, which could lead to a horrible, horrible and nasty break-up, like—”

Choking through a laugh, Blaine pulls back, his cheeks wet as his hands immediately move to grip Kurt’s arms, holding the both of them in place.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, reaching out to sweep away Kurt’s tears with his thumb. “I did this for me. Because I can’t stand to be apart from the person I love.”

Staring into Blaine’s eyes, Kurt pauses to take a breath, and in the process, feels a knot loosening deep in his chest, dams breaking free and walls tumbling down at once.

“I love you,” he murmurs, lost for any other thought.

Smile widening, Blaine leans forward, pressing their foreheads together and cradling Kurt’s cheeks with his hands.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

There’s a chill that sneaks into the hallway as Blaine makes his way down, arm wrapped tightly around Kurt’s waist. In the distance, he can hear rolling wheels and shouts as the crew cleans up the set after a long day’s work, but in the relative space of the hall, everything is quiet, noises all distant, incapable of disturbing the moment.

“I guess we finally made it to the stage door,” quips Blaine, lips quirked in a small grin, watching as Kurt drops his head to rest on Blaine’s shoulder. He does his best to straighten his posture, making up slightly for the difference in height.

But whether or not the position is comfortable, Kurt’s smile remains satisfied.

“It only took us a few months,” he agrees, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against the ticklish, sensitive skin under Blaine’s jawline. Kurt straightens soon after, nose wrinkling slightly as they pull close to the door. “Gosh, even from here, it sounds like there’s a roaring crowd waiting for you outside.”

Blaine winces. “Sorry,” he replies, offering his best contrite expression.

Feigning disdain, Kurt sighs as he fixes his gaze back on Blaine, pulling away to slump against the wall, shoulder first. “You’re such a pain to date,” he grouses. “Never going to bother hooking up with a pop star _ever_ again.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind being the only pop star you ever date,” murmurs Blaine, quickly approaching to bracket Kurt with both of his arms, hips softly nudging Kurt closer to the wall before he raises a hand to tug Kurt’s chin down, lips pressing against the gentle curve of Kurt’s mouth, soft and searching.

When he pulls back for air, Kurt sighs, an air of contentment settling around him as he raises both arms to loop around Blaine’s shoulders.

“I suppose we can leave them chilling for a few minutes longer,” murmur Kurt, one hand dropping to trace the curve of Blaine’s cheek.

Chuckling, Blaine leans in closer, until they share breath.

“They say anticipation is the best spice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! ...for now. (It's very likely that I'll revisit this verse with one-shots as Kurt and Blaine continue in their journey together.)
> 
> Acknowledgments for the incredible journey I've had writing this can be found **[here](http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/49265570146/morning-thoughts-ambitions-like-ribbons)** , but I just wanted to offer a huge thank you to everyone who's followed this story and especially those who have shared their thoughts with me. It's been a real honor to have people following my writing and I couldn't be more grateful.
> 
> Once again, you can find the masterpost for reblogging on Tumblr **[here](http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/49317139959/ambitions-like-ribbons-masterpost-summary-this)**. Thank you so much for reading. ♥


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